Love's Odyssey in Death's Design
by bellanoire
Summary: One year to right a million wrongs. One chance at a second life, the slate wiped clean. The stakes? Her life. Her savior? The last witch in the entire world whose heart she could ever manage to win.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:**_ Greetings and welcome, thank you for clicking on this story, I hope you will enjoy it. Updates will come as regularly as possible, perhaps on a weekly schedule, perhaps sooner. This story is set immediately following the Battle of Hogwarts and the demise of Voldemort. It is both canon in some places, AU in others. Rating will increase as the story goes on and any trigger warnings will be posted accordingly. That being said, I suggest you all buckle up for the ride because I fear it will be a bumpy one. Happy Reading! -bellanoire over and out!

 _ **Disclaimer** :_ I own no parts of the Harry Potter universe or its many beautiful and unique characters, I merely borrow them for whatever craziness my mind concocts.

* * *

 _ **Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **I**

The white light was blinding, the pain intense. Time stood still as every fiber of her being was set ablaze. She could not scream for there was no air in her lungs to accomplish the desired feat. But she wanted to. She wanted to shriek until her vocal cords were shredded because all the agony needed somewhere to go. It was nothing like she imagined it would be. Death. There was no peaceful sinking into oblivion, there was no gentle separation of her soul from the vessel that had harbored it. Only this violent tearing, this blistering heat, the inability to move, to escape, to claw herself away from it all. Perhaps she had had good reason to fear it for so long despite adopting the title Death Eater.

And then it stopped so suddenly and completely that for a moment, all she could do was gasp, pulling in desperate mouthfuls of air so quick and fast that she felt as if her chest might collapse. But she didn't care. Even as she began to choke. At first she assumed that she was choking on air until she realized it was her hair; her sea of lackluster black curls that had been gleaming and silken at one point, wrapping itself around her neck like a noose, trapping the life giving oxygen that she had been so greedily sucking up mere moments before, drawing a strangled yelp from her throat.

She clawed at her neck, her nails breaking the skin as she tried to entangle the hair that only pulled itself tighter and tighter as if possessed by Devil's Snare. Some unseen force then struck her right in the center of her spine, causing her knees to buckle beneath her, sending her crumpling in a heap to a stone floor that was colder than ice. A pained moan breached her cracked lips as she writhed, trying to ease the intense ache. The moan rose to a sharp cry as another bruising attack was aimed at her ribs, once, twice, until a nasty crack rent the stagnant air.

She had been wrong. She was not dead. Someone or something was torturing her. Maybe she was in hell.

Cold, ringing laughter seemed to come from somewhere and everywhere all at once, caressing her ears with the melody of a thousand nails being raked across a blackboard. Resisting the urge to succumb to the weak whimpering that threatened to spill forth from her mouth, she tried to lift her head to see her attacker. But there was no one in the cold white room, chamber. Void.

"You filthy _coward_!" the words were harsh as they were pulled from her very soul, the effort nearly crippling, "Show yourself!"

"Well don't _you_ look a fright?"

The voice was smooth and heady like a shot of aged Firewhiskey, laced with smoke that possessed the sinuous ability to wrap itself around the listener like a serpent. She would know that voice from anywhere though she could not remember how many years had passed since it had last been heard.

It was _her_ voice. The voice she had possessed before the near decade and a half in Azkaban had altered it, warped it. It was the voice of her youth. A voice that had seduced and beguiled, a voice that men and women dreamed of, had yearned to hear their names spoken with.

"What have you done to us, Bella? Or do you go by Madame Lestrange now?" The last bit was spoken with a cheeky, almost coquettish simper, the question posed in rhetoric fashion, as if the speaker already knew the answer and did not require one. Not that Bellatrix had anything to say. She just wanted out of this, this place.

Footsteps cracked loudly against the stone, coming closer and closer. Obsidian eyes blurred as they took in the sight of a figure dressed in black approaching with an indolently swaying gait. As the figure drew nearer, the vision became clear, only foggy at the edges. But it was unmistakable. The pale, prominent aristocratic features, the mass of shining ebony curls, and those dark dark brown eyes brimming with fiery passion, ambition, and purpose.

Bellatrix recoiled, the motion wrenching another pained cry from her lips. She was staring at a ghost. She was staring at herself. Or, what she used to be.

"Our memory has not failed us yet I see," the tone was pitched low though mocking, "Glad to know you haven't _completely_ snapped your wand. Despite everything."

"This isn't real," the battered witch on the floor groaned, wheezing as the pain in her cracked ribs made it difficult to talk. Because of course it could not be real. There was no way she could be having a conversation, albeit a bit one sided, with whatever this apparition of her former self was. Perhaps she really had gone as loony as all those tongues had claimed, regardless of what the thing had just uttered.

The laughter sounded again, low and throaty, nothing like the cackle it would later become. "Oh, but it is. Purity of magical blood you have preached with the surest of convictions and yet, you doubt the oldest magic? Tsk tsk," her younger self tutted around a full mouthed pout, "Don't tell me the years have dulled our senses? Madness we can take but stupidity, never. Right?"

The ghost, spirit, poltergeist whatever knelt so that their eyes were now level and through the haze of pain, Bellatrix could finally fully take in the flawless visage of her tormentor. It was like looking into a mirror of the past. The skin, white and smooth as alabaster stone, unblemished and free of wrinkles, the regal features cut diamond sharp, those eyes, so dark from a far but ringed with chocolate brown, almond shaped and heavily lidded, the straight nose, plump lips tinted rose even without the aid of cosmetics – the influence of her Black heritage, so vivid, so clear. And all of that hair, unbound and endless, the curls gleaming like wet ink. It was almost enough to make her want to weep. Even in such a broken state, however, she could not display such weakness, it simply was not in her to do so, but the stark contrast to who she had been and what she had become, a shell, just the barest hints of her former beauty visible, it sent a poisonous wave of anguish and envy that broke somewhere in the center of her chest.

"What the fuck do you want?" The words were spoken on a growl, a jaw set in a show of strength summoned from the depths of her core, menacing, laced with acid. But it did not have the desired effect, her ego taking a heavy bruise that ached more than what she now realized were the self inflicted injuries to her body.

"What do _we_ want you mean?" The childlike cadence was utterly cringe inducing, "Well, that's a heavy question, is it not? And I shall answer it. Right after you answer mine. I think that's fair, yes. So again, what have you done to us?"

Had her head not been pounding, her brain not scrambled, and the damned sharpness in her ribs not been present, making even the smallest effort to draw breath result in the spread of fiery pain, Bellatrix would have screamed out her frustration until her ears bled. As it was, she had barely enough energy to raise her voice any louder than the growl she had used moments before, so it was a bit of a lost cause.

She said the only thing she could say. The truth.

"I saved us."

"You _destroyed_ us!"

There was that volume, that rage, everything she wanted to feel and exude, rolling in waves off of the whelp of herself and then the vicious sting of her hair being roughly yanked, her head jerked back, forced at an angle that made her cry out in pain mingled outrage.

"You destroyed us Bella, you saw to that when you made _me_!"

"What does that mean 'when I made you'?" she spat scathingly.

Lush lips curved into a sneer of disgust, the voice lowered to a hiss. "Don't you remember? Your first kill. No, not any of the depraved acts you committed playing pawn for that demon you devoted yourself to. The first murder that was uniquely _yours_ and yours alone? How much you enjoyed watching the life leave his eyes?" A pale hand grabbed at the pendant around Bellatrix's neck. The pendant she had never taken off until she had been forced to do so fifteen years ago, the pendant that she had hidden under over a dozen protective wards and enchantments during her bid in Azkaban. A hard tug and the silver chain broke. It felt like a powerful blow to the heart and a strangled sound rose from her throat.

"You remember when you condemned me here to this void, don't you? _Don't_ you?"

Terror in its purest form surged through Bellatrix now, like a dragon unleashed wreaking havoc and devastation which each flap of its mighty wings. The ghost of her former self was no ghost at all. It was her soul. A piece of her soul, the soul she had willingly split in that moment of carnality and blood stained release that seemed like both eons ago and yesterday all at once.

This was her Horcrux.

"Caught on have you?" The Horcrux spoke again, the voice dripping with malice, "All of these years, all those evil deeds, the blind faith in the man that would only bring about your demise. You plowed through life under the pretense of ambition, pursuing this unattainable, impossible goal and dream that never existed. You have forgotten yourself, you have forgotten me. You forgot what we always _wanted,_ what we truly yearned for."

The words stung like vicious slaps to the face but Bellatrix did not wince nor flinch away from the onslaught. Memories flashed through her mind like lightning, rolled like thunder until it felt as if she had tumbled into the mind of her former self. The child who had desperately longed for parental affections, the older sister who had purposely provoked the ire of a tyrannical father to shield the two youngest Blacks from his wrath, the student whose sharp intelligence and wit had very nearly landed her in Ravenclaw, who had broken Hogwarts records with her grades and magical skill, the young woman who had wanted nothing more than to follow her own dreams, forge her own path, who had sought out love and happiness, longing to be free from the shackles that had bound her. The venomous betrayal from one of the few people she would have given her life to protect. The warrior who had waged the battle against the forces holding her back, the same warrior who had conceded defeat; a ring encrusted with precious stones slipping onto her finger, cold as ice, an unbreakable lock for a new kind of binding chain. The solace she had found in the Dark Lord, the one individual who in her whole life had made her feel _free,_ unbound for the first time ever. The carnage. The raw power, the fear, the torment, the ruthlessness, the casting aside of her old faiths and desires, the embracing of a new destiny. The bone chilling, desolate wasteland that was Azkaban prison. The madness. The loss of the last tendrils of sanity, of hope, of all pleasant feelings and emotions. The loss of herself entirely.

"But what if I could give it back to you? To us?"

Dark eyes widened and then narrowed. The pain in her body seeming to evaporate. Bellatrix regarded the Horcrux with an expression of wonder, suspicion, and the tiniest touch of what could be described as longing.

"How?"

"Your hatred Bella, our hatred. It consumed us, fooled us, condemned us. The only thing that defeats hate is love."

She would have laughed, hell, if she had been capable, she would have hexed the Horcrux to an oblivion, ending it and herself in one fell swoop. " _Love_? Love is _weakness_." And Bellatrix knew this to be factual. Love dulled the senses, made one blind to obvious truths. It was unnecessary and useless. The Dark Lord had taught her that, had drilled it into her mind, effectively breaking the last traces of the worthless emotion that had lingered within her into a thousand pieces and throwing them onto a raging pyre to burn. It could not save her now, nothing could.

"Hate is weakness and this you have learned, even if you don't care to admit it. You _know."_

Bellatrix felt herself being lifted to her feet and she was now standing before the Horcrux, trying her hardest, she realized with revulsion, to not turn away from the piercing and relentlessly steady gaze that seemed to go right _through_ her.

"One year," the Horcrux said, finality lacing the statement, "You have one year to fix this, to save our soul. Should you managed to open that Black heart of yours to another and have them see you for who you really are, who _we_ really are, and love you for it, you shall have your second chance. Should you fail? Well then, Death shall claim his rightful prize.

Bellatrix uttered a snort of incredulity as she slowly shook her head. "My very name strikes fear and disgust in the hearts and minds of the entire Wizarding world. It is impossible. I am dead anyway." No one could ever love her. And she could never love anyone else. She didn't even want to, and the chance to live was not incentive enough to even _make_ her want to. After all, what sort of life would she lead, _could_ she possibly lead? Despite the fear that accompanied the thought, she _would_ rather be dead than to live a life that would only be chains and isolation in a cold cell, surrounded by Dementors and the triumphant sneers of those who would relish in the thought of her defeat.

But the Horcrux laughed again, the sound wrapping itself around them both, placing her hands on Bellatrix's shoulders as she pressed herself closer and closer, her lips capturing its dull and cracked counterparts. Her own voice filled her head, louder than a whisper, softer than a scream. _Only the one whose heart you are destined to claim shall see you for who you truly are. No one else shall know your true face. Save yourself Bella. Save us._

The embrace was suddenly broken by a rough shove, the blinding whiteness fading to black and Bellatrix was falling.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Warning:_** _Chapter contains scenes of alcohol/substance use._

* * *

 _ **Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **II**

The month of May had always been defined by flowers and budding leaves, spring at its zenith, the air a warm and gentle breeze, the earth coming to life while simultaneously bracing itself for the heat of summer. This particular May had been defined by flowers too, flowers that adorned the caskets and graves of the many who had perished in the great and final battle of the Wizarding World's Second War. The month had brought with it an endless procession of funerals, more funerals than Hermione had ever wanted to attend in her life. None of the services, though, had been overshadowed by rain or marred by grey clouds. The sun had shone brightly, the azure blue of the sky seeming to embrace the souls of those departed in as soothing a manner possible.

Just the same, Hermione and all the others in attendance had shed bitter tears for their dead and her gut wrenching sobs had rivaled even those of Molly Weasley's at the double funeral that saw two of the matriarch's children laid to rest. Fred's death had fallen over the family with the weight of a thousand bricks, but Ron's death had sent what felt like a powerfully potent dose of the Cruciatus Curse straight to her heart. It _hurt_ to think about the light of one third of the golden trio, the saviors of the Wizarding World, being snuffed out. It hurt more than words could express.

The pain was vicious, relentless, and unending. Worse still was the guilt that had ravenously eaten away her ever since the fateful moment when Ron had sacrificed himself to save her from the Fiendfyre that had ravaged the Room of Requirement. It was an image she would probably never get out of her mind. She could still feel the hot lick of the flames, feel the choking grip of the smoke as all the artifacts within the room smoldered and burned. It was a cruel twist of fate, when just moments before they had shared their first kiss after triumphantly destroying one of Voldemort's Horcruxes, a tender kiss that was filled with the promise of a loving future, of the laughter of children, of growing old. A first kiss that was right out of the pages of a fairy tale.

Their first kiss. Their _only_ kiss.

All of these tumultuous feelings surging through her though, no one thought twice of. When everyone looked at her or addressed her, it was with the pity reserved for someone who had simply lost a boyfriend. It was Harry that everyone was the most careful with, Harry that everyone coddled and looked after. It was Harry that everyone thought had to be the _most_ devastated by Ron's and everyone else's death because Harry was the Chosen One.

Harry was the Boy Who Lived not once, but twice. And _that_ was the hardest thing to deal with because it filled Hermione with loathing towards her surviving best friend, which only fed the seemingly ever hungry guilt. But even that wasn't enough to rid her of the anger. For as long as they had been friends, everything had always been about _him._ She had made sacrifices too. Her own parents were off in Australia with no inkling they even had a daughter because of her fear they would be targeted by Voldemort and his followers. She had forgone the last year of her education to hunt for the Horcruxes, used her own skills and talents to ensure that the three of them survived the long and difficult search. But then again, Harry had always been the priority and sure, it had been Harry who had dealt the final death blow to the one who had been known as the darkest wizard of all time, but he would not have been able to succeed - _none_ of them would have - without _her._ And even though Harry had to deal with all that came along with being the most well renowned wizard in the world right now, he still had a shelter from the storm, a pillar of strength in the form of Ginny Weasley.

Hermione had no one.

The days that followed the Battle blew passed like a hurricane of pain and sadness and after the last of the casualties were buried, Hermione was left only with the task of having to figure out how to go on. Where to start. What to do. Her parents still needed to be located. Volunteers were being recruited in a desperate attempt to repair the damage Hogwarts had sustained in time for the start of the next term. Professor McGonagall had presented her with the opportunity to continue her studies. Employment offers from the Ministry of Magic arrived by owl post every day. It was overwhelming, frustrating, and there was no escape. She felt boxed in, caged, and there was nothing she could do about it because it was _expected_ of her to be saddened by the losses, but overjoyed for the victory like everyone else.

But she couldn't. And no one understood. _She_ didn't even understand.

"Another, please."

The bartender gave a noncommittal grunt even as he used a short wand to levitate a bottle of clear liquid. A deft wave caused the bottle to tilt and pour its contents into a shot glass and when full, the glass slowly slid itself in the witch's direction.

It should have been a shocking thing to see, one of the heroes of the Wizarding World sitting on a bar stool in the Leaky Cauldron, tossing back shots of vodka as if it were water and she was dying of thirst, and it would have been had the occurrence not been a regular one. The night of Fred and Ron's funeral had been the first of what would become the nearly daily visits to the pub. Now, she could ignore the few odd looks that were thrown her way so long as she kept her eyes downcast, concentrating only on the glasses placed in front of her until she lost count.

It did not make her numb, the alcohol, as she had first thought it might. No, it didn't really dull her pain but it gave her something else to focus on, something that was not memorized facts, the smiling faces of her friends during past happier times, something that was not war and torture, hexes, curses and screams, crumbling rubble, or unseeing eyes. Instead she could concentrate solely on the effects of the intoxicant, swirling about in her belly, giving her a delicious feeling of weightlessness. It was as close to an outer body experience she could have.

"Last one Miss Granger," Tom said gruffly, though there was something like fatherly concern in his eyes despite the tone, "It's getting late and I'd be sorely tempted to let you out a room for the night again if I didn't think Molly Weasley would have my arse. She wants you to go home."

"Okay," was the reply even though it was _not_ okay. Of course, she knew that the Weasleys only meant to make sure she was all right, especially after so many invitations to stay with them had either been rejected or gone unanswered. But she could not stay at the Burrow, and she knew that that was the place Tom had been eluding to at the mention of _home._ She could not be surrounded by the family who had become something like a second one to her during the past seven years. She could not bear to be confronted with the void Ron and Fred had left in their wake, that would only serve as a constant reminder of what had been and what _could_ have been. Hermione could not bear to watch the sparks of Harry and Ginny's new found romance grow into a roaring flame that would continue to burn for what was sure to be many years of a cozy, familial bliss the likes of which would never happen for her as it had been viciously torn from her grasp before she'd even gotten a chance at a proper touch.

It was selfish of her and it was unfair. But so was the way of the world and she was learning that lesson as rapidly as she had learned the subject matter of her classes while at Hogwarts.

Draining the glass in a little more than a swallow, Hermione set it down as she rose from the stool. Immediately she could feel the heaviness in her limbs, yet she walked as quickly as she possibly could, out of the pub. She had definitely overstayed her welcome and she was not at all interested in the lingering stares or whispered conversations of the pub's patrons. The spring night air rolled over her like a wave, cooling her flushed face though doing not much else for her mood and spirit. She had no destination in mind and knew better than to Apparate in her condition.

The sights and sounds of Muggle London, rather than providing a sense of comfort, were too noisy and bright. It was bizarre how she had grown up in this world, had lived as a Muggle for the early years of her life until the day that Professor McGonagall had knocked on her door to personally deliver her Hogwarts letter. And from then on, nothing had ever been the same. Who would have thought that by the age of eighteen, shy bookworm Hermione Granger would become one of the most important people in the Wizarding World. Who have thought that her innocence would be robbed by the horrors and struggles of a war that had started before she'd been born, a war being waged in a world she would not have even known existed if she'd simply been a Muggle? It was enough to make her want to laugh and sob uncontrollably at the same time but she knew if she started, she probably would not ever stop.

Choosing to no longer just stand there, contemplating things that she could never change, Hermione moved to the edge of the curb, sticking her right hand out in manner that was both obvious and subtle, no different from the way a Muggle might hail a taxi. Moments later, the screech of rubber wheels on asphalt and a blaring horn rose above the cacophony of the city and there appeared in a triple decker purple swerving mass to come to a halt before her, the Knight Bus.

Stan Shunpike despite being in his early twenties still retained a rather boyish look about him if not for the large ears and pimply face, though Hermione was pleased to see that he had resumed his job as conductor of the bus now that the war had ended and his name had been cleared. Dressed in a burgundy uniform, his conductor's hat slightly askew, he ushered Hermione in, refusing the silver coins she began to draw from her purse. Shrugging, her head spinning a little from the vodka, Hermione boarded the contraption in a clumsy fashion, taking a seat upon the nearest bed.

"Where you headed?"

"I don't know yet," she murmured, "I'm still trying to figure it out."

Stan gave a curt nod despite the fleeting expression of confusion that crossed his face. And then they were off.

With each bump, tilt, and swerve of the bus, Hermione's stomach rolled dreadfully, her head pounded and she fiercely regretted her decision to use this particular mode of transportation almost at once. She would have been better off trying to Apparate now that she thought about it, and if she would have just so _happened_ to splinch herself in her drunken state, well then, it would not have been half as bad as the nausea that was currently wrapping its caustic tendrils around her belly.

"Yer lookin' a little green about the gills there miss. Is you alright?"

Not trusting herself to utter a word without feeling the urge to gag, Hermione merely nodded quickly, the jerking motion intensifying the spinning sensation in her head. Perhaps she _should_ just go to the Burrow. The promise of a warm bed, a cold rag for her head, a relief of pain potion, and in a few hours, a home cooked breakfast very nearly made her mind up for her. As the bus suddenly came to a screeching stop, Hermione's body was pitched forward, and only a trembling hand that gripped the closest metal pole kept her from falling off the bed.

Through the liquor induced haze, Hermione could hear the muffled voices of Stan and the passenger the bus had stopped for. Then the shuffle of footsteps, the revving of the engine being started up again, followed by the sickening lurch of the contraption. Her eyelids felt as heavy as her head as she tried to make out the features of the individual who had just boarded. The figure was that of a woman, Hermione could gather as much despite the long, thick cloak she wore and the hood that covered her head. But then something caught her eye, even though her vision was blurred and doubled. Dark hair was visible around the edges of the cloak's hood, a mass of curls of such volume that it was too much to fully contain.

There was only one witch that Hermione knew to have hair like that and that particular fact cut through the intoxicated stupor, resulting in a flashback that sent a jolt of adrenaline through her blood. The sound of her own high pitched, panicked screams filled her head and a hot lance of pain shot across her left forearm. Merlin, she knew what that hair felt like to the touch, knew what it smelled like. She must have made a sound in the back of her throat because both Stan and the cloaked passenger glanced over in her direction. Those pale, haggard features, those soulless black eyes. It was a nightmare of a confirmation that was like a sledgehammer blow to the temple. A loud cry of shock from Stan Shunpike was the last thing Hermione heard before her consciousness was extinguished like the flame on a candle being put out, her body crumpling to the floor of the bus in a dead faint.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ Heaps of thanks and gratitude for the reception L.O.D.D. has already received. I am both delighted and thrilled you all are enjoying this story so far, words cannot express how much. So, until next time, my wonderful readers! -bellanoire, over and out!


	3. Chapter 3

_**Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **III**

"What are _you_ looking at?" Irritation and a thread of fear laced the hissed inquiry, her pale hands pulling sharply at the black hood that covered her dark hair, as she wondered if a cry of alarm or the summoning of Aurors, ready to take her back to Azkaban in chains, was imminent.

"Er...nothing? But you _are_ standing in a puddle, or didn't you realize?" The wizard who had spoken bore a look of confusion, clearly taken aback at the hostile tone, shaking his head as he walked away from the odd witch who seemed a bit out of sorts.

Huffing in frustration, she could feel her heart's attempt to slow its thumping cadence from the shot of adrenaline that had coursed through her blood down to its normal beat. A quick glance at her boots confirmed that yes, she was in fact standing in a puddle of muddy water, the dragon hide submerged up to the laces at her shins. With a harsh curse, she pressed onward, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake.

There was a curious sort of freedom that came with being unrecognizable to the eyes of passerby that Bellatrix had never before experienced. From the moment she had taken her first breath, her identity had been cemented in the form of birth announcements in both the Daily Prophet and Warlock at War periodicals - the great and Noble House of Black, one of the Sacred 28, had added a new addition to their illustriously pure bloodline. From that day forward, no one she had ever encountered in the Wizarding World had been ignorant to who she was and this was further made manifest over the years, during and following her tutelage at Hogwarts and later as the Dark Lord's most formidably ruthless lieutenant.

This though, to not have looks of horror or revulsion cross the faces of people, to have them just walk by her, paying her about as much attention as one would a stone on the pavement, it was strange. So much so that at every window she passed, Bellatrix took a moment to peer into it, studying her reflection just to reassure herself that she really was in fact, herself. Azkaban had certainly done a number on her looks and she had been aware of the fact even before recent events had given her a rather painful reminder. Literally. But underneath the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the lackluster tangle of curls that were starting to grey at the roots, and the dull teeth that were thankfully no longer blackened and decayed from Azkaban's lack of proper hygenic amenities, but neither the polished ivory white of yesteryear, there was still the obvious evidence that at one point she had been incredibly beautiful.

She scoffed at her own vanity, the sound holding a note of bitterness. This was not the time to dwell on such thoughts, as it was pointless. What she needed to do was think. Somehow she had _landed_ in the middle of a small Wizarding community on the outskirts of London, she had no wand, and absolutely no idea as to how she was going to locate this hypothetical person - some unknown _random_ person, mind - who she was supposed to make fall in love with her and vice versa in order to appease a deal she had made with a Horcrux; a deal that if she failed to fulfill, within a year's time, would bring about her death. The situation made her want to laugh until her gut ached, it was about as insane as people thought _she_ was.

So why had she accepted the offer? That was the true question, not the _how_ but the why. The likelihood of her falling head over heels for someone in the course of five or ten years was slim to none, let alone _one_ year. And Bellatrix knew that. So _why_ had she basically condemned herself?

The answer was both complicated and simple.

The Dark Lord was gone, never to return, she was sure of that. The Dark Mark, the tattoo that had both magically and metaphysically bound her to him as well as all of the other Death Eaters, what had been something like a second heartbeat under her skin, it was gone. After all these years, there was nothing of the mark left, not even a shadow or an outline. Everything in her should want to be just as dead as her former Master was. Perhaps if things had gone entirely differently, she would have relished in being killed in battle like a true warrior, defending the _cause_ with every fiber of her being until the very last moment, gladly falling if it meant that her beloved Master would emerge victorious in his endeavor to kill Harry Potter. But something deep within her had been altered, _corrupted_ in that blinding white abyss, that place between life and death. And while the thought made her want to bang her head against a wall or scream until her vocal chords were reduced to a shredded, useless mess, Bellatrix realized that a tiny part of her - perhaps greater than that even - _wanted_ this second chance at life, the second chance that the viciously resentful piece of her soul had promised her.

And anything Bellatrix Black Lestrange wanted, she seized in one way or another.

So now that she had finally summoned the courage to admit that truth to herself, what was she going to do? Spend the next twelve months praying to bump into someone who would supposedly see what no one else could, that she was in fact a convicted murderess who had been formerly known as Lord Voldemort's most faithful and trusted? And then what? Bloody invite them to tea? And where the hell would they have this hypothetical tea? Cissy's? Lestrange Manor? Madame Puddifoot's? Maybe that pink heart filled monstrosity of a cafe would somehow set the mood for love and affection?

This was ridiculous.

She was not aware of her current appearance, only being able to see her true self in any surface of reflection, so she had no idea how she looked to the outside world. Her 'new' look could not be _that_ terrible, she supposed, as there had been no lingering stares or pointedly averted glances from those she'd passed. She wondered briefly how she might be able to convince Narcissa that she was really her sister until she realized that it should not be too hard.

Her memories were still intact, she knew things about both her siblings that no one else could possibly know. Having no wand though, she would not be able to Apparate to the Malfoy grounds in Wiltshire and it would be far too conspicuous in the midst of the small crowd of people to take to her Animagus form, that was _if_ she still possessed the ability to do so because technically she _was_ dead. Other methods of travel were likewise quickly shut down. Like stealing a broomstick from somewhere for example, and flying to her destination. That was out of the question if the laws of secrecy had not been altered during the war. Those of the Wizarding World might not be able to recognize her as Bellatrix Lestrange, but that didn't mean she couldn't still be arrested for outing the existence of magic to the rats without tails. Her only option, really, was to take the Knight Bus.

The thought made her shudder. Purebloods like herself usually avoided the bus. It was so _Muggle_ -like, it was sickening. But with her only other choice looking towards arriving by foot, which would more than likely take _days_ , time that she didn't have to waste, she steeled herself to her fate. Funny that the whole thing could be rendered null and void if she just so happened to die from a broken neck caused by whiplash aboard the purple deathtrap.

Flagging the thing down was surprisingly easy, the screech of rubber, though, was received with a grimace of displeasure. Bad enough the Ministry had taken the idea for the bus from Muggles, but had no one possessed the sense to cast a decent silencing charm on it so that it wouldn't disturb the peace? Not that peace or the disturbance of it had ever been a concern of hers.

But, still.

The pimply faced youth that was commandeering the outrageous eye sore of a vehicle looked somewhat familiar though she didn't allow that show on her face. Eleven sickles, he said, was the price for a ticket. Smashing. They actually expected payment for a ride that could very well maim an individual. And she had no money anyway. The Horcrux had deposited her back in the land of the living with nary a Knut on her person. Strangely the only tangible thing she did possess, besides her clothes, was her pendant. It was as if the necklace's delicate links had never been broken, the silver and onyx pendant resting just below the place where her collarbone met. But that did her no good. The item that contained a fragment of her soul was hardly a bargaining chip. And the lack of a wand was once again painfully obvious as the desire to _Imperio_ the sorry excuse for a man made her hand twitch in earnest. Intimidation wouldn't work either as her face was unrecognizable, and she would rather be eaten alive by rabid werewolves than even entertain the hope that perhaps this was the wizard with whom she was supposed to fall in love.

"I haven't any money," she uttered through clenched teeth, the sheer loathing of having to ask a favor of someone who clearly was nowhere near a level of worth such as her own damn near debilitating, "I am stranded here and desperately need to find my way to my sister's home so if you would... _please_ allow me aboard, I would be grateful." The 'please' had taken her two tries to get out but the conductor did not seem to notice. Taking a long moment to contemplate the situation, that very much made her want to claw his eyes out of their sockets, he finally nodded and jerked his head in the direction of the passenger section.

Making sure the hood still covered as much of her hair as possible, Bellatrix initially opted to stand, not at all wanting to lower her standards by sitting on one of the beds. Salazar only knew what manner of witch and wizard had utilized the cots. But the moment the bus took off, like a rogue broom with intentions of killing its flyer just for the hell of it, she rethought her decision and with a begrudging huff, settled for perching lightly upon the edge of the nearest bed while she gripped a metal pole with her full strength.

Amidst the cacophony of deafening bangs, a blaring horn, and that infernal Banshee-like scream of the wheels, Bellatrix was dimly aware of a strangled sound coming from the patron seated behind her. Her first instinct was to ignore it, after all she had been through too much to have to worry about the problems of another. She had her own to work out. But when the attention of the conductor was also roused, Bellatrix couldn't help but succumb to the curiosity that urged her to glance back.

What she saw made the blood in her veins turn to ice. She froze, her breath catching in her throat.

It was the Mudblood Granger, Harry Potter's little _girlfriend_ or whatever she was to him. And she looked about as horrible as one might if they had been trampled by a herd of Hippogriffs. All that bushy brown hair looking even more frizzled and frayed than she had ever seen it, the face moist with perspiration, holding a sickly pallor, purple bruise-like circles beneath the eyes. Eyes that were trained on her face, that flashed white with sudden terror and a clarity that belied her current, obviously inebriated, condition.

"Oi!" Shunpike barked out, lunging forward as if to catch the brunette as her eyes rolled back into her head and she fainted. But he wasn't quick enough. And of course Bellatrix made no move to assist, even though she was sitting closer. She was still trying to comprehend what she had just read in the eyes of the now unconscious girl. It was impossible. Unthinkable. Unacceptable. But with every replay of the incident in her mind a simple truth remained unchanged. And it made her want to vomit. There had been _recognition_ in that slightly unfocused hazel stare. Plain as day. But then, no. That would mean...she couldn't even say it, couldn't even think it. Absolutely not.

"We need to get 'er to St. Mungo's," the conductor croaked, clearly distraught by the turn of events, "Sorry miss but this could be an emergency. Yer welcome to come wif us or get off right 'ere if ye want."

Maybe she had imagined the whole thing, maybe she had merely been seeing things. She had been labeled _mad_ for a reason after all. But the ringing in her ears and the pounding of her heart only served to extinguish the tiny flame of hope before it could even spark. In its wake, a storm of fury and repugnance was beginning to form, a tremendous cyclone that tore through her body, simultaneously ripping apart and impregnating every fiber of her being with its thunderous wrath.

"LET ME OUT!" she screeched, causing the conductor to jump nearly a foot in the air at the sudden harsh volume, his acne covered face gone lax from shock, "LET ME OUT OF THIS ROLLING SHIT BOX THIS INSTANT!"

He didn't have to be told twice. As the doors sprang open, Bellatrix all but flew off of the contraption, not even pausing to watch it take off like a purple bat out of hell into the night. She was a bit preoccupied with relearning how to breathe to care one way or another.

Her? And a Mudblood? Not just any Mudblood, but _the_ Mudblood? The Mudblood who had been just as much a blight on their cause as Harry Potter, the brat himself? She should as well drive a dagger through her own chest right then and there. And might have done so had she been in possession of such a weapon. But how could she not? What wicked twist of fate was this? How could she possibly fall in love with that _creature_ who was on so low a rung on the ladder of desire that she might as well bed a slug? Not to mention that the Mudblood would rather see her executed by the kiss of a Dementor, would rather cut out her own tongue and feed it to her filthy Muggle parents than ever lavish affection on _her_.

Perhaps it was the piece of her soul that was truly unhinged. Compared to that Horcrux, she had the mind and possessed the logic of a well renowned Minister of Magic. Or the Supreme Mugwump.

Bellatrix surveyed her surroundings. The night sky with its twinkling stars and pale moon. A thick forest of trees, their leaves trembling in the spring breeze. A dark winding road that was as empty as her heart felt. She had no idea where she was or how she would make it to Malfoy Manor. She was sure of one thing though, in that moment, and of one thing only.

She was going to die.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ Thank you all so much for the reviews, follows, and favorites! They bring such a huge smile to my face you have no idea. So definitely keep the reviews coming. What did you like? What didn't you like? What was your favorite scene, your favorite quote? What had you on the edge of your seat? Or are you just really excited to see what's next to come? Do you have predictions? Speculations? Are you piecing together the subtle clues that I've hidden throughout the chapters? Let me know! It makes writing this story even _more_ enjoyable because I look forward to how you guys are going to react, the suspense is like a cliffhanger. So, until next time my lovelies -bellanoire, over and out!


	4. Chapter 4

**_Warning:_** _Ch_ _apter contains scenes of child abuse._

* * *

 _ **Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **IV**

As Hermione regained consciousness, her ears were met with the sound of hushed voices in the vicinity and hastened footsteps on a stone floor. The lights were dim and she was vaguely aware of being warm and tucked into a soft, cushiony bed. Her head still felt heavy but the throbbing had been reduced to a dull ache that was not uncomfortable enough to be labelled painful. Her mouth, though, felt like it had been filled with cotton that had long ago absorbed all traces of moisture therein. Other than that, she felt all right. Physically anyway. Inside there dwelled, like a terrible sea creature of the deep, a pain that could not be soothed away by touch or a potion, it was like a wave of anguish, surging somewhere in her belly, rising to a crest right around the area where her heart was steadily beating away despite everything.

But no Healer could do anything about that.

She was in St. Mungo's, she realized in that moment, noting that even with the influence of magic, it smelled the same way its Muggle counterpart might, the heavy scent of antiseptic and antibacterial cleanser strong and cloying in her nostrils. For one entirely blessed spell of utter confusion, Hermione's brows furrowed as she tried to figure out what she was doing in the hospital. In contrast to all the emotions she had been battling for the past two weeks, that short second of fleeting bewilderment was like a cool salve on a stinging burn, a temporary though welcome relief.

And then her brain, as if it had been kick started by some unseen force, got with the program, piecing together the puzzle in a rapid sequence of flashbacks. The Leaky Cauldron. Her drunken state. Her indecisiveness as to where to go from there. The Knight Bus. A sickeningly bumpy ride.

And _her_.

That monster with the black curls. The witch who had mercilessly tortured her on the marble floor of the icily austere drawing room in Malfoy Manor, who had cut that hateful word into her skin without a second thought, with no remorse. The same witch she had saw die by the wand of the Weasley matriarch during the Final Battle, the witch for whom the only grief anyone could dredge up following said demise was because she had not lived long enough to see her wretched Dark Lord finally fall.

Bellatrix Lestrange, in all her infamous glory, had been aboard the Knight Bus.

Hermione began to scream, the high pitched sounds rising into shrieks that went ripping through the calm of the hospital ward. Healers and Assistant Healers rushed into the room with such haste, that had it not been for the hurried thuds of their feet pounding against the floor, it could have been assumed they had Apparated.

"Miss Granger! Miss _Granger_!"

"What's happened?"

"Where are you hurt?"

"Talk to us Miss Granger!"

But the pleading inquiries from the hospital staff were merely bounced futilely against the wall of noise being wrenched from Hermione's throat, finding no way to break through. The only reply was those wordless, continuous screams that went on and on for what felt like an eternity.

Until at last, something was able to be deciphered, stitched together to form broken though coherent speech.

"Bellatrix Lestrange! Alive! She's _alive_!"

Whoever had made the brilliant deduction that silence could be even more deafening than the loudest roar, deserved a medal of the highest honor indeed. Verily, the hush that settled over the wide eyed Healers wielded so much power, that it effectively shut Hermione up despite the battle being waged between her mind and body. Her brain was desperately fighting for its control on logic while her mouth, lungs, and throat, which had gone tight and hoarse, wanted to resume with the fit of screams. The sudden quiet made it possible for Hermione to easily overhear their whispered murmurs, and words such as 'hysterics', 'delusions', and 'delirium' provided just enough strength for her brain to triumphantly take back its senses. At the same time, a fire bomb of fury detonated in the center of her chest.

"I am _not_ mental! I know what I saw, who I saw, and it _was_ Bellatrix Lestrange on the Knight Bus."

"Miss Granger, Madam Lestrange is deceased." That tone, usually reserved for talking a suicidal jumper down from a rooftop, only incensed Hermione further. She could feel the rush of hot blood flooding her face, the muscles of her brows and forehead contracting to form a deep scowl.

"I was there at the Battle," she hissed sharply, "You don't _need_ to remind me of who died and who did not."

The audacity of them. Where had _they_ been when flashes of green light were flying around like ravenous vultures, snatching away life forces on their indiscriminate quest for death? When the walls of the castle came tumbling down around the fighters from both sides? Where the hell had they _been_ when the groans of the injured had rent the dirt and debris filled air, begging for relief? Sobbing for a respite?

They could never know the horror of it all, for they had not seen it with their own eyes. They had merely helped put the broken bodies of those who had managed to survive back together again in the aftermath. So, really, it made no difference what she said about Bellatrix somehow managing to break off her date with Death. They would not believe her. Not without proof. And she would faster set a library ablaze than willingly put herself anywhere near that demon.

"Just get out. All of you."

The hospital may have been the Healers' domain, but as one of the heroes of the Wizarding World, if she wanted to be left alone, she bloody well expected to be. It wasn't as if she were gravely ill and needed constant monitoring. Overindulgence in alcohol and the hangover that followed required nothing more than hydration and relaxation to cure. The only close to tangible thing she was currently suffering from in that moment was a serious case of embarrassment brought on by the spectacle she had just made of herself for no reason.

She was aware of the fact that three of the Healers looked at the fourth, who must have been their supervisor, waiting for his word on the matter. The Healer in Charge gave a curt nod and a moment later, they filed out of the room. The remaining wizard pulled a vial from the pocket of his coat and summoned a glass wherein he poured out the vial's contents. At the lift of an inquiring brow, he assured his patient that it was merely a potion to help her calm down and get some much needed rest, before setting it on the stand beside the bed, right next to her wand. And then he too left.

Hermione presumed the brew to be some sort of sleeping draught but she didn't want to sleep. She needed to think. Somehow she had to send word to the Order...and Harry about what she had seen. _They_ would believe her, she was sure of that. And then together they could devise a foolproof plan to rid the world of Bellatrix Lestrange once and for all. Or see her returned to Azkaban for her unforgivable sins. There was no other option.

Merlin, they were supposed to done with this, done with it all. But then again, Lestrange was not the average former Death Eater. And for Hermione, the matter was a personal one.

As if aware of the path her thoughts had taken and as a result, was coaxed out of its dormancy, the cut on her arm, a permanent testimony to the evil witch's depravity, began to itch in earnest. The itching had started some time after the Battle of Hogwarts had ended. Hermione had tried to pay it no mind then, not at all wanting any sort of reminder of the torture she had endured for the 'greater good', figuring the sensation had something to do with the natural healing process. But something was different now.

The itch suddenly flared to a burn so intense that it made the brunette gasp sharply and grab at the cloth that covered her arm to inspect the agitated skin. The cut was an angry red, and raised, standing out like a sore thumb against the peaches and cream tone of her forearm. It seemed to pulsate, so much so that Hermione half expected it to rise and fall like the beating heart beneath her chest. So encompassing, completely seizing her senses in a vice grip, it was like a pull. A magnetized lure that demanded her total attention.

Through the physical onslaught, she could hear a child crying somewhere in the hospital. The pitiful wailing coupled with the pain in her arm served to double team the witch, the cursed cut throbbing in time with the child's sobs. For some reason she _knew_ she had to get to the child and somehow comfort and pacify it, because only then would the flames, that unrelenting lick of heat between her wrist and elbow, be doused. It made no sense and perfect sense all at once. Her body moved as if on autopilot, surging forward with a sudden strength that manifested itself out of nowhere, her hand grabbing for the wand lying on the night stand. Hermione knew she could not Apparate, not without drawing the attention of any Healers or Assistants anywhere nearby. Thinking quickly, she cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself, the wand movements rushed and a little clumsy though efficient enough as the effects of the spell took root and her body slowly began to blend in with its surroundings.

Gritting her teeth against the distracting sensation of the cut, she quietly stole out of her room. Like a thief in the night, she peeked left and right, tiptoed around corners, making sure to keep close enough to the walls so that she would not be noticed. She could not pinpoint the child's exact location, the cries seeming to echo through the air. Her brain though, seemed to know exactly where her feet should go, compelling her movements without any conscious thought of her own until she had made it to the hospital's exit. Stepping out into the night, Hermione was momentarily puzzled by the fact that she could still hear the child, the sound now even louder than it had been from her room. The cut continued to pulse nastily and as the charm began to wear off, she knew she had to do something, she could not just stand there. Her brain again made the decision for her.

Had she been able to think clearly she might have thought it odd that it was Bellatrix Lestrange who occupied her thoughts as she Apparated on the spot.

* * *

In the heavy black cloak, that had somehow been draped upon her person when she was cast back down among the living from limbo, Bellatrix blended in well with the night. It was her favorite few hours out of the twenty four - from the moment the sun had sunk so far below the horizon that the earth cast all and sundry in a peculiarly beautiful blue shroud, until the first fingers of light could been seen wiggling out of slumber in the east. Many thought that all lay dormant during those hours but, on the contrary, the world came alive in its own special way and from since she'd been young, Bellatrix relished in the pale glow of the moon, the twinkling of the stars, the nocturnal creatures that basked in the darkness. And when she herself had become one of the proverbial creatures that went bump in the night, she had felt the tiniest bit whole. Which had been most welcome, considering all within her that was so cracked, mutilated, and broken.

After losing track of how many steps she had taken, Bellatrix was ready to resign to her fate that she might have to seek shelter somewhere in the wooded area that surrounded the road. But without the aid of magic there would be no fire, no food or water. And regardless of the season, the air was rapidly losing its warmth, a chill rendering the cloak useless in keeping goose flesh from erupting all over her body. Perishing from exposure like a common Muggle was hardly a way she thought she would ever die, but with a bark of harsh laughter, she realized that being killed in the heat of Battle at the hands of Molly "The Brood Mare" Weasley had not been an ideal death either. The humiliation alone was as vexing as an infected wound or a canker sore, so much so that it almost made the idea of falling in love with the Mudblood appealing.

 _No_. Not even.

There was no possible way she could make it to Cissy's by sunrise. Nor by noon, that was to say if she was even going in the right direction, but still she walked on, realizing that her gait was slowly but steadily ironing itself out. As a result of so many years spent chained in that small, inhumanly cramped cell, she had developed a limp of sorts, her legs and feet temporarily losing the ability to utilize their full stride. It had certainly painted a perfect portrait of madness following the prison's mass breakout, those unstable steps violently pitching her body to and fro, coupled with her wolfish grin, and maniacal cackle. Good to know that something in her had finally righted itself.

And then everything went wrong.

It was as if a lever had been pulled in her brain and, in that moment, Bellatrix lost total control of her body. Her legs failed her and she collapsed to the ground, though she couldn't feel the earth beneath her. She had gone completely numb. With the exception of a sudden tightening around her neck, the pendant's chain cutting off her gasp of shock. Worse still, she had been rendered blind and deaf, the sights and sounds of the night fading away to nothingness. Before she could even search for the sense to be terrified, an image exploded in her mind with the force of a well aimed _Bombarda_ _Maxima_ , and there was a strange rushing sensation that enveloped her incapacitated body, pulling her towards the image faster and faster until it felt as if it had been turned inside out and she was now standing in the middle of it, no longer witnessing the scene from her mind's eye but from directly in the center of the image. Like a dream or a hallucination. Or like she had just taken a tumble into a Pensieve.

 _The chamber was large, its furnishings exuding luxury. A chandelier hung from the ceiling laden with candles that burned with flames enchanted so that the wax would not melt, illuminating the quarters, casting a golden orange light upon the brocade walls, stone floors, and french style windows. A child of about six or seven years stood in the center of the room, her face shrouded by a mass of black curls. Clad in a satin night shift, she was crying, mighty sobs of fear and desperation that wracked her small frame as she cowered away from the chamber's other occupant._

 _The wizard was well dressed, his disposition stoic though he seemed to take up all the space in the room, his very presence suffocating. His hair was as dark as the child's, though straightened, and pulled back in a queue with a leather band. His features were chiseled and angular, eyes brimming with glacial fury as he regarded the girl with an expression one might adopt if an insect was scuttling across the floor._

 _"You dare disobey me?" The question was spoken in a tone hardly louder than normal though it rose through the air as if it had been yelled._

 _"I'm sorry Father I -"_

 _SLAP!_

 _The wizard viciously back handed the child with such force she was brought to her knees, wrenching free a sharp cry of pain that broke through the stream of sobs. Blood welled up from the corner of her lip where a heavy silver ring her attacker wore on his finger had broken the skin._

 _The wizard went for the strap of dragon hide that held his black trousers up at the waist, sliding the belt through the loops and brandishing it in a threatening manner._

 _"Perhaps you need another lesson as to what happens to little witches with a penchant for disobedience?"_

 _There was nowhere to run, no place to hide from her father's wrath, so a young Bellatrix curled herself into a trembling ball, pressing her forehead against her raised knees to brace herself for the lashes that would soon brutally rained down like a raging storm._

Bellatrix was thrown out of the scene in a violent rush, her senses restored as quickly as the tip of a wand being lit at a mutter of _Lumos_. Her fingers curled around the dirt, clutching at the dead leaves and twigs, grasping for some semblance of solidarity against the onslaught of dry heaves that wracked her body, attempting to eject the contents of her stomach. But there was nothing therein but bile, and the sour taste triggered more retching and gagging.

What the _hell_ had just happened? The memory of that particular moment in her childhood had not been so much a flashback as it had been a complete reenactment. She had not merely seen it, she had relived it. For Salazar's sake, she could actually feel the sting of her father's slap as if the man had somehow been resurrected and had just cast the blow. Her tongue darted out to taste for blood on her lower lip, but there was none. Her head felt as if it had been cleaved in two, and there was a pounding in her ears that drowned out her choked gasps as her body rattled with powerful tremors like a leaf caught in gale force winds. The pendant was no longer trying to suffocate her, but as she reached for the clasp to remove it, she had to bite back a hiss of pain as a pulse of energy shot out from the silver links, effectively stopping the action. She could not take the necklace off.

A low purr that carried like smoke clouded her mind then, preceding a voice that she recognized as that of her Horcrux sounding from somewhere within her. " _There is no future in the past,_ " it said, smooth as satin though hard as steel, " _But the past contains the keys to unlock the truth. You shall see."_ Throaty laughter followed the fading words, neither mocking, nor warm though somehow possessing an absolute purpose, until it too ended as if it had never occurred.

Bellatrix did not hear the pop of Apparation sound a few paces behind her but she was instantly aware of the presence of another. Despite the weakness in her limbs and the liquid feel of her muscles, her fighter's instincts gave her the strength needed to turn her head in order to identify the individual who would either be an attacker or her savior.

Standing nearly close enough to touch, wearing nothing but a hospital gown, slippers, and a shell shocked expression was Hermione Granger, her wand held loosely between the fingers of her right hand.

It took great force for Bellatrix to suppress the recoil that threatened to jerk her body backward. Bad enough she was already sprawled out on the ground, her body shaking like a newborn Thestral learning to stand. She didn't need the extra irritation that would come with the wretched girl seeing her caught off guard.

"I swear on my Lord, Mudblood," she growled hoarsely, "If you pass out again, I will strangle you."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ And there it is! Major plot development *cackles* Early update this week! What can I say? You guys give me so much motivation! But what's going to happen next? That's for me to know and you to keep reading to find out! But again, as always, thank you all so much for the reviews and follows and favorites, it's delightful to know that you guys are as much a part of this story as I am. Tell me what you think! Until next time, loves -bellanoire, over and out!


	5. Chapter 5

_**Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **V**

"Strangle me?" Hermione huffed with the raise of a single brow, "You can't even stand, can you?"

Despite the bravado that threaded the words her heart was pounding so hard in her chest it was almost painful as she raised her wand and aimed it at the witch lying prone on the ground. Even if Bellatrix _did_ look like a bird whose wings had just been clipped, she was not someone to be underestimated by any means. What Hermione found weird though, barking even, was that while she was standing less than two feet away from a known killer, a twisted sociopath who had tortured her not long ago, the fact of that particular matter was not on the immediate forefront of her mind. No, instead, what the brunette was trying to figure out was how she had managed to Apparate to the raven haired witch's location in the first place. The burning of the cut on her arm, her being compelled to seek out the child she had heard crying, her landing in the middle of nowhere to find an incapacitated Bellatrix Lestrange. None of it made the slightest bit of sense, which for someone who operated on a system of facts and logic was quite frightening.

"So the ickle lion cub _does_ have claws, then. Who'd have thought."

That mocking voice brought Hermione back to the here and now as effectively as a smack to the face, or being submerged in a bath of ice. She shook her head in an attempt to clear it, knowing she needed to have all her wits about her, more so than she had ever needed them in life. Though she wielded the upper hand, being armed and all, she knew from experience how cunning and ruthless the Death Eater could be.

"Did you _summon_ me here?"

Despite how crazily impossible even the thought of an affirmative response to the question once posed aloud seemed, said question required an immediate answer, being much higher on the ladder of importance than any other inquiries or methods of interrogation at the moment. Those would come later. Right now she needed to know what sort of dark and perverse magic had altered her Apparation ability to the point that it had been like accidentally touching a Portkey. One could not Apparate without knowing first where they wanted to go and could not successfully achieve the desired feat thereafter without planting the image as clearly as they could in their mind. Destination. Determination. Deliberation. That had been lesson number one. As she had no idea where she was, and why Bellatrix Lestrange was here, she needed some sort of explanation and quickly.

A harsh snort and a laugh that was more of a wheeze than its usual cackle managed to center Hermione's focus once more, and she watched as the dark witch tossed her head back. The action caused her cloak's hood to slip behind her, freeing her curls, and sending a portion of the tangled tendrils to conceal half of her face. There was absolutely no mistaking those features, no not at all.

"Did I do _what_?" Bellatrix tittered, her voice pitched high, evoking a chill that ran up the column of Hermione's spine, "Don't flatter yourself, you piece of filth. You'd be the last person I would call on in a time of need."

Whatever plague she had been suffering from seemed to be passing as Bellatrix noted the weakness in her limbs evaporating. She could breathe easier, no longer needing to gasp for air, and the urge to vomit had stopped. With the renewal of her strength, she could now face the Mudblood properly and she slowly rose to her full height, glad that the change of position gave her the leverage needed to even out the playing field a little. The girl still had her wand drawn though, but with the experience gathered from over two decades of war, she trusted her ability to get out of the way of any hex or curse that might be thrown at her.

Not that the Mudblood was going to cast a spell. She would have done it already. Bellatrix certainly would have, and had the situation been reversed, the girl would never have made it to her feet.

She smirked at the bushy haired brat, lifting her chin in a display of well practiced arrogance. The girl was beneath her in every capacity of the word and regardless of her being able to see her for who she truly was, Bellatrix was not about to relinquish her pride for one as undeserving of such submissiveness as Harry Potter's beastly little playmate.

But the younger witch didn't falter, the hand holding the wand trembling only slightly, more from the rush of adrenaline that must have been flooding her body and less from fear. The eyes, though, windows to the soul that they were, those murky brown orbs were filled with a terror she could not conceal.

"Don't you take another step," Hermione ordered, the tone meant to be threatening but it was pitched much too high to be so, "Or I - I'll kill you!"

Bellatrix could not help but scoff at the threat that had taken the Mudblood two tries to make, nor did she attempt to stifle the derisive sound, though she did make no further movements towards the other. The gears in her so-called warped mind were already turning, trying to figure out a way to use the girl and that lovely wand she was clutching to her advantage.

"You can try, but I don't think you can," the dark witch retorted with a taunting lilt to the words.

Hermione's brows furrowed as she pondered the meaning behind the statement. Either the Death Eater thought she was too weak to cast an Unforgivable curse or, physically she could not be killed. It would explain how she had somehow managed to still be alive and kicking even after the violent death that had taken her out of the Battle. If it was simply a jibe at Hermione's lack of courage, well, the dark witch would be surprised. If it was the other option, it was too terrifying a thought to even entertain. An immortal Bellatrix Lestrange? The world could never be ready for such a thing.

"What do you mean by that?"

Bellatrix was many things but thick had never been one. She could very clearly see the Mudblood trying to get to the bottom of what appeared to be an incredible scene. There was no way she was going to speak on her Horcrux or the whole falling in love deal. That was out of the question. Such ammunition did not belong in the hands of anyone, especially not her and the bloody Order of the Phoenix who would more than likely involve the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries. And then the fools would coalesce into a mindless lynch mob like a band of Muggle pigmen on a witch hunt.

That could not happen.

"Do it then, kill me."

It might have been taking a gamble, judging by the way the girl's grip on her wand tightened. But then several moments passed and no flash of green came. Of course not. Killing just did not come easy at all to the self righteous sort. They were far too 'by the book', preferring instead to preach sermons on 'what would Dumbledore do?'

"Killing you would be too easy. You deserve to rot in Azkaban for all the things you've done."

"Story of my life, Muddy," Bellatrix waved the biting comment away as if it were a pestilent fly, using the gesture to mask the involuntary shudder that went through her at the mention of that hellish prison, "But there _is_ something you can do, now that I think about it."

"And what, may I ask, might that be?"

There were two somethings the Mudblood could do actually, but all things considered, she looked just as confused to be here in this unknown location as Bellatrix had felt upon her sudden arrival. And the whole summoning thing was a subject best pondered for another time because, at the moment, the raven haired witch couldn't think of no other explanation as to how the girl had found her. Judging by the hospital attire, traipsing along a dark road surrounded on both sides by a thicket of trees and brush at such an ungodly hour had clearly not been on her itinerary. Unless, of course, she had just escaped from the mental ward. But that seemed highly unlikely. And if Bellatrix couldn't figure it out, a sniveling Mudblood certainly couldn't either.

"Take me to my sister's house."

The incredulity that settled upon the brunette's features was as great as if she had been told to take the witch ice skating on the rings of Saturn. Verily, the request had to be some sick joke, so terrible it was practically hilarious.

"Why on earth would I do that?"

Bellatrix sneered wickedly, the light of the moon making her pale features appear almost skeletal. Or demonic. " _Because_ if you don't, your precious goody goody friends will never find your body. You know better than most that I don't need a wand to _play_ when I want, yes?" She took a deliberately slow, menacing step forward, not at all deterred by the wooden implement that trembled slightly in a suddenly unsteady grip, "And, as you can plainly see dearie, I _can_ stand." She tilted her head to one side, the sneer transforming into a smirk, her chilling tone taking on the cadence of a dulcet purr, "So come now, do as Bella asks and she _promises_ she won't peel all that pretty skin right off your bones."

There. That was a _proper_ threat. Laced with just the tiniest edge of the madness she was best known for, eliciting the most delicious spark of fear in the girl that filled the dark witch with glee.

Hermione swallowed, her throat so dry the action made a clicking sound, and she shuffled two paces backward. To her credit, though, she didn't lower her wand even an inch. She could see the seriousness in Bellatrix's bottomless eyes, hear the danger dripping off the words. Merlin only knew what matter of torturous things the witch might do to her before she could even so much as utter an incantation. As small as the Death Eater was in height - about two inches shorter than the brunette without the aide of her heeled dragon hide boots - she made up for it with a physical strength that had been astounding when Hermione had been subjected to it, pinned to a marble floor, completely helpless.

Her mind was already made up.

The decision had not been a difficult one to make at all once she thoroughly weighed her options. If she used a full body bind on Bellatrix and left her there on the side of the road, what was not to say a forest animal wouldn't try to kill her, or a passing vehicle might come through and suppose she was someone in need of help and cart her off to the nearest hospital? And if Hermione _was_ brought to the location by some magical force beyond her comprehension, would she even be able to find it again on her own? It was too much of a risk to take. She could of course take the witch straight away to the Burrow. But Bellatrix was as crafty as she was crazy, and if she somehow managed to get her hands on Hermione's wand she could murder the entire Weasley family in just a few unapologetic flashes of green. Honestly speaking, Bellatrix was a frighteningly brilliant duelist, third only to Dumbledore and Voldemort, from what she had seen. The only reason Mrs. Weasley had even been able to defeat her in the first place was because her arrogance had distracted her. And Hermione had a feeling that if it came down to it, Bellatrix would not make the same mistake again. No, it was best to make the Death Eater believe she was going along with the plan. Right, if she side-along Apparated Bellatrix to Malfoy Manor, Hermione would know exactly where the witch was, would then be able to alert the Order, and lead them directly to her. It was definitely the better option. The Malfoys were under special watch by the Ministry as it was and if the Aurors acted quickly enough, the dark witch would not have time to disappear somewhere else. Strangely though, the brunette mentally noted, Bellatrix did not seem particularly interested in fleeing or evading capture. She had been on the bloody Knight Bus for Merlin's sake, hardly a method of travel for someone wishing to keep a low profile.

She did not dwell on the thought though.

" _Fine_ ," Hermione said through clenched teeth, thoroughly unnerved by the thought of being in close proximity to such a horrid and despicable person despite her decision,"I'll take you."

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy stood before the large window in the drawing room of her husband's ancestral home, surveying the dark, cloudless sky. The moon illuminated the immaculately kept grounds, the large expanse of greenery with its mighty oaks and shrubbery swathed with bursts of fresh leaves and bloom. Despite nature's evidence of new beginnings and warmth, the blonde felt cold and bare inside, her heart, desolate. As if she had been recently exposed to a horde of Dementors and had not been able to consume any chocolate afterward. In truth, what she had experienced was worse than any of the abhorrent guards of Azkaban could ever be. Her home had been, for the past year up until two weeks ago, the official headquarters of the Dark Lord and all of his lieutenants, the most evil and ruthless of the Death Eaters. They had ravaged the place where she had once felt safe and content like beasts, leaving behind nothing but darkness and a chill that no fire could warm.

In the end, she supposed her actions, by some, might be considered cowardly. But when Harry Potter had jumped out of the arms of that half giant groundskeeper and the side of the light had exploded in cheers of triumph and victory, Narcissa knew that all was lost. She, her husband, and their son had fled from Hogwarts with no interest in continuing the fight, their only concern being their own lives. She was not there when the Dark Lord had fallen. She was not there when her sister had died.

It seemed surreal, the loss of her eldest sister. For as long as she had been on this earth, Bellatrix had been a constant fixture in her life. Even when she had been sentenced to Azkaban, she was still _there_. For her to be gone, well, Narcissa imagined it would take some time to get used to. What she still had was her life and her freedom.

The same could not be said for her husband.

The Malfoys had been granted only two days reprieve after the official end of the war before Lucius had been captured by Ministry officials. Both of them had known such would happen but the knowledge of it had done little to dull the pain. And Draco, her darling little dragon, was like a living ghost. She barely saw him as he stayed locked in his room for most of the day. He was hardly eating and could not be persuaded to take more than a few bites of even his favorite foods. He rarely spoke. To the point where Narcissa was beginning to forget what her son's voice sounded like.

Nothing good ever came from war. That was an undeniably truth. No matter which side one was on, the cost of the outcome was much too great to simply be considered a win or a loss. This was not a Quidditch match. This was death and destruction and anguish. And Narcissa was sure she would have felt the same way had it been the Dark Lord who had emerged victorious. She had lost her fervor for the _cause_ the moment her child had been recruited into the madness.

The Lady Malfoy resigned herself to yet another sleepless night. Ever since Lucius had been taken, she found she could not return to their marital bed. She could not bear the way the sight of his belongings and his lingering scent evoked heartbreaking memories. Their marriage had been one built on the foundation of love. Not many purebloods had had that luxury. She felt lost without him and she ached with the nostalgia of those precious, peaceful years following the Dark Lord's disappearance on that fateful Halloween night so long ago. The peace and contentment had lasted three years and a decade, until its death knell had sounded during the summer of 1994. After the Quidditch World Cup, nothing had ever been the same. And it probably never would.

Sighing softly, Narcissa turned away from the window. It was after three in the morning. Part of her hoped that Draco might still be awake and if she would be able to convince him to have a cup of tea with her. They did not have to talk, if he didn't want to. She just longed for some company, the shroud of loneliness making her feel like a stranger within the walls of her own home. Perhaps, if he refused, she would talk to one of the portraits.

Her foot had just landed on the bottom step of the grand staircase when a series of loud, banging knocks at the front door cut through the heavy quiet. Gasping, the blonde witch whirled around, startled and shocked down to her core that someone would have the audacity to trespass on her property at this time of the night. Whoever it was, they had certainly not been invited and she doubted the obviously crazed individual would be bringing any sort of good news.

Drawing her wand from its holster at her hip, Narcissa slowly approached the door as the knocking fervently continued. Whoever was on the other side seemed desperate to enter and the blonde steeled herself to the thought that if it came down to it, she would have to protect herself and her son by any means necessary. With no hesitation, she wrenched the door open, her wand aimed at the head of the hooded individual who stood upon the stone landing.

"Reveal yourself," she demanded sharply, her tone cold as ice, not wavering in the slightest.

The hood was peeled back and the stranger stepped forward, the light from the manor's interior exposing a feminine face. Narcissa did not recognize the witch at all, was sure they had never been properly introduced or acquainted. Her features were an odd combination - the hair voluminous, though neither curly nor straight, too dark to be considered brown, too light to be considered black, the facial structure not quite plain but not particularly beautiful. The eye color was a strange shade too, like dark chocolate mixed with licorice. There was no familiarity in Narcissa's gaze as she regarded the unknown witch and she sniffed with disdain upon taking in the sight of a cloak soiled with dirt and dry leaves.

"You are not welcome here. Leave my property at once."

"Cissy, for Salazar's sake, lower your wand. It's me. Bella."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ Now of course, you all know it can't be _that_ simple for Bella and 'Mione to fall for each other. That wouldn't be too realistic, now would it? Not even in the world of fan fiction. Our girls still have a bit of a ways to go, but so long as you guys are down for the ride? I'm good. And as always, loads of thanks for the reviews, follows, and favorites. I love reading your thoughts on the story, so please keep those coming! Until next time my lovelies -bellanoire, over and out!,


	6. Chapter 6

_**Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **VI**

"Bellatri-? _Bella_? What on _earth_?"

Narcissa was struck dumb. It was incredible. Absurd. And it could not be merely a case of her seeing things because the witch that stood on her doorstep did not look a _thing_ like her sister. Her voice did not even sound like Bellatrix's, but the tone - that petulant, exasperated tone - was quite familiar. Maybe. Or perhaps the loneliness was causing her to lose her mind. Funnily enough, the possibility of her going insane was a far easier concept to believe and accept than the idea of her dead sister somehow managing to come back to life in the body of another individual.

"Are you going to let me in or not?"

The blonde felt herself move away from the door in a silent invitation and watched, in grey wide eyed wonder, as the witch stepped into the foyer, the sound of her heeled boots striking the marble floor echoing off the walls. The walk was the same, Narcissa was able to immediately discern, but in the way it had been before the other's imprisonment in Azkaban, a lazy strut that was both arrogant and confident. A swagger that seemed entirely out of place as the face was not recognizable.

"Is it really you?"

A ridiculous question to pose now, considering she had already permitted the witch passage into her home, but one she needed to voice aloud anyway.

"Yes," the reply was given in a distracted fashion and Narcissa could see the reason was because the witch was currently regarding her reflection in the large looking glass above the mantle piece with a transfixed, contemplative expression. As if she was not quite sure what she was looking at, or studying her features to cement them to memory. Their gazes met in the glass. "It's an icebox in here Cissy, honestly, have one of your Elves start a fire."

The blonde clicked her fingers twice sharply, sending a call that was effectively received by a small House Elf donning a tea towel that was wrapped around its body like a Grecian toga. The Elf was relatively young, not quite full grown, but its ears flapped forward, its bulbous nose nearly touching the floor as it sunk into a low bow.

"Mistress has called for Teeny?"

"Light a fire," Narcissa ordered with a dismissive wave of her hand, still avidly and openly staring at the witch who had claimed to be her dead sister. Teeny did not seem to mind the cool, detached tone, nearly bouncing with glee to complete the request.

"How is this possible?" the Lady Malfoy murmured, taking a couple of hesitant steps in the other witch's direction, stopping herself before she got too close.

Bellatrix sighed heavily, having since stepped away from the mirror, and all but threw herself down upon a robin's egg blue colored settee, ignoring the flinch from her sister as the dried leaves and forest earth that sullied her cloak came into contact with the furniture's fabric. "A long story, that, but I want tea first. The strongest you have, with lemon, and a drop of -"

"Dittany essence," Narcissa cut in automatically, finishing the sentence in a soft though no less shocked tone.

Bellatrix smirked, chuckling softly in affirmation, "You know how I like it."

As the blonde only knew of one individual who took their tea in that particular fashion, that one individual being her presumed deceased eldest sibling, it provided the tiniest semblance of proof that this was in fact not some strange nightmare, but solid reality. She was not sure which of the two - nightmare or reality - was the most frightening, but when one had experienced hell and actually lived it, there was not much that could effectively top such a thing.

 _This_ however came close.

Once roaring flames came to life in the fireplace that had fallen into disuse since the Dark Lord had taken over the manor, Narcissa ordered the tea. Rather she ordered the witch's - _Bellatrix's_ \- tea, preferring now just hot water and lemon as the caffeine in the latter brew would more than likely make her more twitchy than she already felt at present. Perhaps she needed something much more potent than either. A straight shot of Firewhiskey would have done wonders for her nerves. But such would have been unseemly as now was certainly not the time to imbibe. Just the same, the House Elf, pleased beyond words to truly be of service after being more or less ignored for a fortnight, disappeared with a light pop to go fetch the beverages, leaving the two witches alone once again.

Not trusting herself to stand much longer, Narcissa took a seat across from the other, perching on the edge of the opposite settee. Her posture was stiff and prim, back straight, shoulders drawn back, her hands folded neatly in her a lap- a stark contrast to the way Bellatrix was sprawled in an uncouth manner upon the furniture, a habit of hers that had never ceased to irk the blonde.

"I truly cannot believe this," the words were spoken on a broken whisper, Narcissa allowing a sliver of the emotions she had been suppressing since she had first opened her front door to finally surface, "I thought you were dead. They, the Aurors, told me you had died in the Battle."

"I did," Bellatrix said, cocking her head to the side, her eyes narrowed, as if she were pondering a fleeting thought or about to ask a question and was indecisive as to which action she would go with, another one of her many quirks that the blonde witch could not help but notice, "Yes, that great red cow was the one to do me in. Shameful really, to die like that. But then, _something_ brought me back."

Before Narcissa could begin to decode the frustratingly cryptic statement, Teeny's arrival was announced with a pop, the little Elf carefully balancing a Goblin wrought silver tea tray in its hands, large eyes shining with pride for having served its mistress and her guest promptly and efficiently. "Will there be anything else Mistress is needing?" the Elf squeaked, looking back and forth between the two witches once the tray had been set down, readily accessible to the both of them.

"That will be all Teeny," Narcissa stated with a curt nod and the little Elf disappeared at once.

Settling back slightly, she watched with a guarded expression as Bellatrix leaned forward to take her tea, bringing it to her nose to breathe in deeply the wafting steam and aroma. To some, it might look like a common gesture made by one simply seeking the comforts of a hot beverage, but the Lady Malfoy knew her sister well and so knew that it was not something half as simple or pleasant.

Seeming to detect nothing out of sorts, the dark witch sipped slowly from the porcelain teacup, her throaty sigh of satisfaction swallowed by the crackling of the fire.

"So this _something_ brought you back from the dead?" Narcissa prompted pointedly, not at all caring about her own shamelessly conspicuous manner of speaking. Social decorum and civil discretion were not the priority in times such as these.

Bellatrix paused for a moment, toying with the pendant around her neck, as she regarded her youngest sister. It was evident that like everyone else she had encountered thus far, with _one_ horrible exception that she refused to think on at present, Narcissa could not see her true face. It made the conversation difficult to start because the blonde had a guard up, the facade she erected whenever she was in the company of anyone that was not her immediate family. And even though it was clear that her sister had accepted that she was who she said she was, Bellatrix was able to bear witness to an obvious conflict within the other, an uncertainty that did not bode well for the acceptance of the secret she was being spurred on to tell.

No one but the Dark Lord had known about her Horcrux.

And it was after that moment of pause that Bellatrix decided that no one _would_ know. Not if it could be helped. "I don't know what it was," she said, using her finger to swirl the contents of her cup before lifting the digit to her mouth to lick away the drop of tea, "It was strange though, chaotic, even for me. I'm in this body now. A fresh start, a second chance."

It was not an _entire_ lie, the dark witch thought, but dear sweet Cissa of course could be counted upon. Her sister did not look at all convinced of the tale, her brows furrowed lightly as she tried to make sense of what truly made no sense.

"I have never heard of such magic," there was a bitter edge to the statement that did not go unnoticed but was ignored just the same, "How ever did you get here then?"

"Oh, that. I was aboard the Knight Bus when - "

Narcissa barely stifled a horrified gasp. "You traveled on that _thing_?" She shook her head slowly as she set her drink down on the tray. The Bellatrix she knew would never lower her standards and step foot on such a hideously Muggle-esque contraption. No self respecting Pureblood would ever. " _You -_?"

"If you would shut up for a moment and allow me to finish my story," Bellatrix retorted, cutting her sister off, clearly torn between her own revulsion at willingly being a passenger on the Knight Bus, and blatant amusement at Narcissa's reaction, "There was an... _accident_ and Potter's Mudblood assisted me the rest of the way."

The story was getting worse by the minute and Narcissa could no longer conceal her disgust. She suddenly leaped to her feet as if she had been stung by a particularly nasty Billywig though the action was still carried out with all the poise and grace befitting of a proper Pureblood lady, "Hermione _Granger_? She Apparated you to my home? You let that girl onto the grounds of _my_ home and _told_ her who you are?"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes, a gesture of annoyance and confusion brought on by how ridiculous her sister was behaving. At first it had been funny. Now, it was just becoming irritating. The time did not seem right to confess that said girl was the only person in the entire world who could actually see her true self so she had not exactly _told_ the Mudblood anything, and as the Horcrux portion of the explanation had been omitted, it would not make sense to mention it now.

"She was on the bus as well and I haven't got my wand. How else was I supposed to get here?"

A dark gaze followed Narcissa's somewhat frenzied footsteps as she paced the length of the drawing room. After a while, the rapid clicking of her heels was the inevitable straw to break the proverbial camel's back, grating on the last of the former Death Eater's fragile nerves like the whining of a spoiled child, "Oh stop that," Bellatrix snapped waspishly, "You're overreacting Cissy. _I'm_ the one in the predicament. Not you."

Narcissa too had reached her breaking point and she suddenly rounded on her sister, the blue of her eyes taking on the likeness of encapsulated lightning, "Lucius has been taken by the Ministry. He is facing life in Azkaban for his involvement in the war."

"Oh, sorry," the dark haired witch muttered around her teacup, hardly sounding sorry at all. And why should she? She had always thought Lucius Malfoy to be far beneath her sister's standards, not deserving of even a second glance, and Bellatrix had never hidden her far less than approving thoughts and sentiments on their marriage. But somehow Narcissa had convinced herself that she was in love with that sorry excuse for a wizard, foolish as it was. Still, his capture and impending imprisonment had nothing to do with her the now.

"Well, I haven't any belongings for your Elves to bother themselves with, as you can see. One of the spare rooms should be suitable, preferably in the west wing."

All of the intensity bled from Narcissa's gaze as she stared at the witch lounging carelessly on the settee. The witch who had proven to be her sister reincarnated. While somewhat true the story had been, intuition told her that there was much more than what had been stated, but she had no desire to pry for further information. Regardless of what else there was to it, the fact that Bellatrix had returned was evident. Was that not something she should want; a silver lining in the dark clouds that had rolled in and heavily shrouded the azure skies of her life? Of course, the eldest Black heiress could hardly be considered a cloud's silver lining. She was more like the promise of a tornado in a thunderstorm on her best days but she was, first and absolutely foremost, her sister. Right? She should be happy to see her living and breathing even if it was in the body of someone else, shouldn't she? But still, Narcissa knew that was not what required an answer. No. The true question was could she withstand another storm while she was desperately trying to rebuild from the rubble the last tempest had wrought? And she knew that she could not.

"You aren't staying."

It was Bellatrix's turn to jump to her feet, the teacup in her hands tumbling from her grasp, spilling its contents as the porcelain shattered against the marble floor. " _What?_ "

The blonde licked her lips, a thrum of nervous energy causing her to tremble slightly yet she did not falter, "You are not staying here."

"Narcissa what the hell do you mean?" Bellatrix's brows rose as her eyes widened almost theatrically in her head but the sheer treachery of the statement had truly shocked her to the core.

"You're my sister, Bella. Even if I can't see it's you, I know it's you in my heart. And I love you, Merlin help me, I do. But this? It's all too much."

 _Love._ That word again, that meaningless emotion. Again. Though this time, the utter uselessness of the word and all that came with it was rearing its hideous head. The dark haired witch laughed, her harsh cackle a resounding noise filled with scorn, well concealing the almost crippling hurt she really felt.

"Too much? Are Gobstones rattling about in that pretty blonde head of yours? How _dare_ you speak to me about anything being too _much_?"

Narcissa lifted her hands in what could have been perceived as an appeasing gesture, or a submissive one, as if she were trying to ward off an attack that had yet to come. "I can't deny all the things you have done in the past for both Andromeda and I, nor will I ever do that, but you are very much aware of the losses I've sustained all in the name of the _cause_."

"Oh, I see it now," her sister trilled in that cringe inducing sing-song voice, the one that bespoke of madness, as she took a step closer, "This is about revenge! Ickle Cissy exacting her pound of flesh. Glad to know you've finally grown a spine."

The words were honed with venom and well aimed, meant to wound where it was sure to hurt. But Narcissa had been anticipating this and knew what shields to put up in order to block Bellatrix's deadly bladed tongue.

"No, it is _not_. This is about salvaging all that I have left, this is about protecting my family."

"I _am_ your family, Narcissa!" The childish voice vanished, replaced by a gut-wrenching tone, almost a plea, that verily _ached_ just to hear.

A heavy sadness filled the blonde's eyes for a moment before an icily passive expression slid into place as her resolve was enforced with steel. "My husband will be sentenced to Azkaban, my only child has not eaten or spoken in weeks. What do you suppose will happen if and when the Ministry and the Order is given the word by that wretched little Mudblood that I am harboring one of the Wizarding World's most wanted under my very roof?"

Bellatrix snarled, her anger, disbelief, and the pain of the betrayal well passed its peak. "No one would know it's me. _You_ didn't even know until I told you, and even then you were not sure!"

Narcissa slowly shook her head, heat prickling beneath her eyelids, "It's too big a risk to take Bellatrix."

"I _hate_ you."

And the dark witch wanted to mean it, wanted to mean it with every fiber of her being. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, the desire to hate her sister in that moment so devastatingly strong. But no tears fell for she simply could not let it happen. So it was Narcissa who succumbed to the weeping for the both of them.

"I know," the words were strained, the voice cracking under the weight of the emotions that laced them, "Right now you may hate me, but one day you'll understand why it has to be this way. Even still, I can't bear the look of betrayal in your eyes right now." Despite the fact that they were not her sister's eyes, it was still like a sword thrust to the heart.

" _Fuck_ off."

Swallowing, the lump in her throat making the action difficult, Narcissa turned her face away from the dark haired witch, her gaze resting on the dancing flicker of the flames in the fireplace. The charmed sconces on the walls. The cathedral ceilings. Anywhere but her sister. "I'm sorry," she murmured, so softly that in another circumstance one might have needed her to repeat herself. Now, the statement carried like a chilly northern breeze, "You have to leave. _Please_."

The word 'please' and its desperately beseeching tone was like a strong compulsion spell. Bellatrix had never been able to deny Narcissa anything. Ever. Funny how the sentiment could not be reciprocated when it mattered most. Years ago, practically in a different lifetime, Andromeda had done the same. To the both of them. History certainly did have a nasty habit, a perverse fondness for repeating itself.

She left, silently, without a backward glance. As she stepped out onto the manor grounds, the first stirrings of dawn were visible just along the eastern horizon. Taking a deep, calming breath, Bellatrix closed her eyes, centering herself, concentrating solely on the flow of raw magic that coursed through her body - flooding every cell, every muscle fiber, every bone - the magic that was as innate to her as breathing, and tapped into it. She could feel the change, feel how her tumultuous emotions finally found an outlet.

Soft down and feathers erupted first, then the talons, leading up to the odd sensation of her body shrinking in one way, lengthening in another. It was not painful, nor had it ever been, the taking to her Animagus form. A small trill of excitement surged through her at the confirmation that she had in fact retained the ability and she took the skies, her wingspan greater than she was tall while in her human form. A Verreaux's eagle, one of the largest birds of prey, adorned with a plumage of obsidian and cream. It had always been so fitting and such was the same now. The eagle screeched, long and shrill, shedding the pain like a snake molting its skin, the weightlessness of flight easing the emotional heaviness, the rush of the crisp morning air unraveling the knots of her tangled thoughts.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ This was difficult to write and left me kind of emotionally drained. But all in the name of Bellamione, of course. That is the main goal here and I'm sure you all, or at least most of you will agree. Let me know your thoughts on this chapter though and, as always and forever, thank you so much for the reviews, the favorites, follows, the support in general! It's all like sunshine on a cloudy day, for real if you'll pardon the utter cheesiness of that particular statement. Until next time loves - bellanoire, over and out!


	7. Chapter 7

_**Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **VII**

As Hermione appeared in the wild and untamed field of the Burrow, a wave of exhaustion overtook her, the physical combining with the mental fatigue that had been present for the past two weeks since the end of the War. Apparation in such quick succession took a lot out of a witch or wizard and she was feeling the effects of it now, especially coupled with the hangover that had been slowly fading away following her departure from St. Mungo's. The sudden recollection of the night's events elicited a soft gasp of shock from the brunette as her hands clasped at every inch of her body, checking for any injuries or deformations. She was blessedly unharmed. Which was quite a feat to be able to proclaim after magically transporting an evil psychopath to the place where she had been tortured by said psychopath less than two months prior.

Verily, Bellatrix had _not_ tried to kill her, nor had there been a pack of Death Eaters lying in wait on the grounds of the ancient home to ambush her. Thinking back on it now, Hermione could not help but feel very _stupid_ , because there could have occurred far worse an outcome upon arrival than Bellatrix simply wrenching herself away from the younger witch with a disgusted grunt before completely deserting her, taking hurried though determined strides up the manor's winding walkway. Aware of her good fortune, luck really, enough that would make any self respecting Leprechaun die of envy, she had not wasting another moment in Disapparating from the premises of the place that still haunted her nightmares.

Now approaching the Burrow, Hermione quickly attempted to gather her thoughts. There would be no room for error when delivering the news that Voldemort's most faithful was not only alive but free as bird, nor would there be room for omitted details when it came time to assemble the battalion of Aurors needed to detain the dark witch.

She needed to act fast.

At her sharp series of knocks, the door to the precariously tilted magically enforced home was swung open wide, revealing a rather frazzled looking Molly Weasley. The redheaded witch looked as if she had not been to bed that night despite the late hour, nor the night before that. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and the fine wrinkles time had caused were more prominent, seeming to have added even more years to her age. But all of that quickly was rendered irrelevant when a loud squeak of shock and relief rent the air and Hermione was pulled into a bone crushing hug.

"Hermione, dear! Thank heavens! Let's get you inside, come come, we've all been beside ourselves with worry!"

The brunette was hustled into the kitchen and led to the large wooden table in the center. The flames in the brick fireplace were burning down to a few crackling embers but candles lit the room, giving it a warm orange glow. The sound of the dinner dishes washing in the sink gave the place an even more homely feeling, as did the light ticking of the family clock, the hands depicting the faces of each of the Weasleys. Five of the hands were pointing towards 'home'. The smiling faces of Bill and Charlie the two eldest sons, were pointing toward the scripted word 'elsewhere' and the remaining two hands were now blank, pointing upward like a regularly clock signalling midnight or noon. Hermione looked away quickly, not at all desiring the direction her thoughts were attempting to take.

"We heard you had been taken to St. Mungo's," the voice of the Weasley matriarch cut in and the younger witch turned her attention back to Molly, grateful for the timing, "but before we could so much as gather around to Floo there straight away, another owl arrived claiming you had disappeared from the hospital and no one had any idea where you had gone!"

Hermione was suddenly alarmed when Mrs. Weasley began to sniffle through the words, tears spilling down her ruddy cheeks until she realized almost simultaneously that the display of emotion was coming from a place that did not only have to do with that night but her obviously noticeable absence since the funeral. But she was not yet ready to have that particular discussion nor apologize for being so distant.

They all had something, or someone, far bigger to worry about.

"Mrs. Weasley, please, is everyone awake? I need to speak to you all immediately and it can not wait."

Though evidently taken aback by the urgency in Hermione's words and tone, Molly nodded and quickly wiped her eyes before bustling out of the kitchen to amass the rest of the family. One by one, the Weasleys arrived. Arthur Weasley first who looked just as surprised though glad as his wife had been to see Hermione safe and sound, followed by Percy, George, Ginny, and lastly Harry.

"'Mione! You're all right!" the dark haired bespectacled wizard shouted, surging forward to embrace her. Hermione tentatively hugged him back, though she stepped away before the hug lasted too long, using the greeting she sent to Ginny as an excuse. Still, the smile she aimed at the youngest Weasley though, felt forced and not entirely genuine.

"Hermione has important news to share," Molly called out amidst the excited chatter and questions and a moment later, she had their undivided attention, all eyes on her watching and waiting expectantly.

There was a glimmer of hope shining in the gazes of both Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, especially pronounced in the latter's and Hermione imagined they assumed she was about to announce her intentions of finally moving in. Unfortunately for them, such a thing was farthest from her mind.

"Bellatrix Lestrange is alive."

Unlike the revelation to the Healers in the hospital, this time the statement was received with sharp gasps and exclamations of disbelief and outrage. George Weasley jumped back from the table, to his feet, his face gone nearly red as hair in anger, his brows furrowed deeply over incensed eyes.

"Mum killed that hag!"

"I saw it," Ginny piped in furiously, gripping Harry's hand tightly in her own, "I saw her die!"

Hermione could only watch as questions were barked and harsh oaths were sworn. Mrs. Weasley was clutching her heaving chest, seeming on the verge of hyperventilation. Harry was just staring back at her, his expression entirely unreadable. It was like a small storm had quickly gathered up winds and speeds, propelling itself into a chaotic twister that wrecked havoc on the kitchen. A sharp, shrill whistle suddenly cut through the din, Mr. Weasley rising to his feet as quiet settled over the table.

"Hermione, are you sure of this?" he asked, brows furrowed heavily, his usually jubilant features gone as serious as that of a strict Hogwarts professor.

"Certain, sir," the brunette murmured, the blunt edges of her teeth worrying at her lower lip, "I - I'm about positive. You see, when I left the Leaky Cauldron, I caught the Knight Bus and Lestrange boarded some time after me. When I saw her, well, I fainted and that's how I ended up in St. Mungo's." She let out a deep breath she had not been aware she'd been holding, "And then I felt a burning, pulling sensation on my arm, you know, where she...yeah. I don't understand it really but for some reason, I Apparated away from the hospital and I - I found her lying on the side of the road."

"The cut on your arm? You're saying it led you to her?" Mr. Weasley asked slowly and Hermione nodded.

"Like I said, I don't really understand it myself. It was the oddest sensation, as if I had almost been summoned. But when I asked her, she didn't seem to know anything about it either."

"Was she injured?" Molly asked, seeming to have found her voice at last. Like the rest of the family, she was trying to make sense of the words coming out of Hermione's mouth with evident difficulty. But no one had scoffed, laughed, or disregarded anything she had said yet, and so Hermione took it as a sign to continue.

"No, I don't think so," she said with a shake of her head, "She didn't appear to be anyway, maybe she fell? I dunno. She didn't attack me though and she doesn't have her wand. She asked me to take her to her to Malfoy Manor. And I did."

"You _what_?" Harry exclaimed, green eyes widened in shock and he too abandoned his chair, "Hermione if what you're saying is true, do you know how dangerous that is? She could have killed you!"

"I know," Hermione sighed, rubbing at the crease between her eyebrows, "I know, it was stupid but once we got there, to the Malfoy's, she didn't say or do anything to me. She just...left and I Apparated here. I mean, I couldn't bring her here could I? At least now we know where she is and we can get the Order involved and - and the Ministry. She wanted to go there specifically for a reason. Right?"

The more, she realized, she was trying to justify her actions, the stupider Hermione felt. In the moment, by the side of the road, she had thought she was handling the situation the best way possible. But now, judging by the looks on the faces of the Weasleys, it seemed as if she had made some great error that no one was able to speak on. Perhaps she _should_ have brought the dark witch to the Burrow, but as she had considered before, what would have happened if Bellatrix had managed to overcome them all? Taking Lestrange to the manor had seemed to safest thing to do at the time.

Hermione did not realize that she was crying until Ginny stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her. This time, the brunette welcomed the embrace, needing the comfort. Merlin only knew how this problem was going to become rectified, but in the here and now, she appreciated the gesture.

" _If_ she is alive," Arthur said, "She needs to be captured and brought to trial."

Hermione nodded, stepping away from Ginny to regard the Weasley patriarch. "I know she is alive Mr. Weasley and I want to help in any way I can."

Harry may have defeated Voldemort, but Bellatrix Lestrange was just as evil as her former Lord had been. Her hands were covered in the blood of countless witches and wizards - Neville's parents, Sirius, Tonks, just to name a few, and Dobby, the House Elf who had sacrificed himself to save them all from the mad witch's clutches. Hermione wanted to see her suffer the same way her victims and their families had suffered, the arrow of vengeance piercing through the heart of all of the guilt and anguish that had consumed her since the Final Battle. She needed to do this.

"I will send an owl to Kingsley at once, letting him know everything Hermione's just told us," said Arthur, kissing his wife on the forehead, "I imagine the Order will want to convene here first thing in the morning, so I think it best everyone try to get a bit of rest before then?"

"Yes, yes of course," Molly said, drawing herself to her full height to address her children, "Everyone off to bed this instant and Hermione dear, I will not hear of you not staying the night. You will room with Ginny." There was no arguing with the particular tone.

Hermione waited for the others to leave from the kitchen, muttering among themselves in the wake of the bomb she had just dropped. She did not at all desire to be subjected to the questions and the demands they were all sure to have. Mrs. Weasley kindly offered her a cup of hot chocolate, but the brunette declined with a shake of her head. Despite how tired she felt, she highly doubted she would be able to get any sleep. It was hard to come by enough, sleep, in light of everything that had recently transpired. After tonight though, Hermione honestly believed she might never sleep again. The idea of Bellatrix Lestrange possessing the ability to track her down, like a predator stalking and imminently catching its prey, sent a shudder through her body, her hand reflexively reaching for her wand though Hermione knew there was no immediate danger current within the Weasley kitchen, the only potentionally deadly thing in sight being a set of chopping knives sitting upon the wooden counter.

Sighing, she began the ascent up the stairs, her hand running up the polished bannister as she did so. Maybe if she just laid her head down, fate would have mercy on her and sleep might blessedly come.

The sound of muffled whispering met her ears and it was from the landing that Hermione caught sight of Harry and Ginny sharing a long embrace. She watched from the shadows between candlelight and dark as Harry pulled back and drew a gentle caress down the redhead's cheek, watched as she leaned into it, Ginny's eyes glistening with unshed tears. Hermione's heart gave a nasty thump in her chest as she watched the Chosen One plant a soft, lingering kiss on his girlfriend's lips. The kiss deepened, Ginny's arms lifting to wrap around Harry's neck and she pressed herself closer to him with a breathy groan.

Hermione turned away, the scene quickly becoming too inappropriate for her to be witnessing, and she nearly tripped on the last stair in her hurried movements to continue on to her room. She did not understand the feelings that were washing over her as she wrenched the doorknob open and stepped into the somewhat untidy quarters. Envy. Anger. Pain. _Betrayal_? But why should she feel betrayed? That made no sense. She tried to work out the category where each emotion should be placed. It was strange, Harry nor Ginny owed her no sensitivities or discretion when it came to their relationship. But still something within her stung deeply and it was not merely a physical sensation. It seemed to flow through her like an electrical current, wires charged with the poisonous emotions fusing togther. They thrummed and pulsed, like a second heartbeat, an entirely separate entity from her own self.

She kicked the door shut, with more force than she had intended, the loud slam resounding throughout the house's second story. But rather than feel embarrassed for causing the noise, the bang seemed to clear her thoughts, the negativity morphing into an odd sort of satisfaction. Even more puzzling was that in the next moment, her heart suddenly felt curiously light. As she flopped down onto the bed and her head hit the pillow, Hermione felt as if she was...flying.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ A bit of a filler chapter, though still necessary for the plot. So the Weasleys know...but do they really? *winks* What oh what will become of Bella now as we know her stay at Malfoy Manor was cut short, so to speak? What will this mean for Hermione? How will she prove her story to be true? And what is up with Hermione's emotions spiralling even more out of control than they've been as of late? Ah..so many questions that need answers that will come in due time. I promise. Heaps of thanks and gratitude for the support! You guys are the best for real :) Until the next update -bellanoire, over and out!


	8. Chapter 8

_**Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **VIII**

Sunlight filtered in through the windows and Hermione's hazel eyes fluttered open. For a moment she was unsure where she was, though the smell of breakfast wafting up from the lower level of the house soon answered her unasked question. She was at the Burrow. As she rose from the bed, she realized for the first time since she had met the Weasley family, she felt like a guest under their roof. With Ron dead, what ties did she really have to his kin? That was not to say that she did not care about them, she certainly had love for them but with her plans for the future viciously erased by the war, well, it was no longer the same.

The room was empty with the exception of herself which indicated that Ginny had either risen earlier or she had slept elsewhere. And after the passionate exchange Hermione had witnessed a few hours ago, she did not want to think on where that elsewhere might have been. Shaking her head, she made her way to the bathroom. After a quick moment to utilize the facilities, she turned the sink's tap on full blast. The splash of cold water on her face was refreshing. A peek in the mirror revealed tired, bloodshot eyes, dark circles beneath them and an underlying expression of worry despite the indulgence of a couple hours rest. Her hair was a frightful mass of tangled curls that would more than likely need a gardener's tools to tame. But there was nothing that could be done about that now. It was not very high on her list of importance so she pulled it all into a low ponytail before heading downstairs.

Hermione could hear the sound of several voices talking at once as well as the clink of cutlery on plates. When she entered the kitchen, there sat among the Weasleys the interim Minster for Magic Kingsley Shackbolt, and four Aurors, three wizards and a stone faced witch she did not immediately recognize. In fact, after several rather awkward moments she couldn't even remember these Auror's surnames. A lance of pain shot through her chest as she realized how strange it was to not have Tonks and Remus sitting among them. They had fallen during the Battle, the memory of their bodies laying among the other casualties in the Great Hall flashed before her eyes, their lifeless hands clasped within each other's, a testimony to their love even in death.

"Oh there you are dear, I didn't want to wake you," the voice of Mrs. Weasley cut in, for the second time since her arrival at the Burrow derailing the train of her painful thoughts, "Come, sit and eat."

Hermione complied to the invitation, sliding into a free seat next to Percy Weasley, across from the Order members. Though the knots forming in her stomach as she registered the gravity of the situation that had prompted the Aurors' arrival was hardly ideal for the consumption of any breakfast. Verily, the slice of toast she picked up felt like a brick in her hand but she nibbled it lightly so as to not provoke further concern from the Weasley matriarch.

It was then that she realized that something was not right. None of the Aurors in attendance, with the exception of Shacklebolt, were members of the Order of the Phoenix. "But where are the Order?" she found herself voicing her confusion aloud, "Surely you can't expect to catch her without them. She was Voldemort's most loyal!"

Kingsley Shacklebolt, with his dark skin and regal features making the wizard appear rather formidable save for a subtle, though gentle kindness in his chestnut eyes, regarded her with a look of expectation. The other dark wizard catchers in attendance were staring at her too wearing various expressions from skepticism to intrigue to annoyance - probably as a result of her statement. Swallowing the bite of bread that was more like trying to digest cotton than actual food, Hermione leaned forward slightly in her seat.

"The remaining members of the Order are currently assisting with end of war efforts - reparations to Hogwarts School, providing rehabilitation and support to families and individuals displaced and separated following the seige of the Ministry. Officials have designated the capturing of former Death Eaters and fugitives to the best Aurors at our disposal," he nodded at the four before returning his undivided attention to Hermione, "Are you positive it was Bellatrix Lestrange that you encountered yesterday evening Miss Granger?"

The brunette nodded and began to retell the story she had told the Weasley's mere hours ago. The Aurors were all listening with rapt attention, occasionally cutting her off to ask questions. But after the third time of trying to explain the cut on her arm and the compelling effects that had come over her while in St. Mungo's, Hermione was beginning to lose her patience. And said patience had certainly been in short supply over the last few days.

"This is the Wizarding World," she said sharply, nearly upsetting her wooden goblet of pumpkin juice as she stood from the table, "I know it sounds impossible and quite frankly, terrifying, but I know what I saw. I spoke to her. I side along Apparated her to Malfoy Manor. She is there right now, probably planning some grand escape and you lot are here wasting your time interrogating me. How is that logical even by magical standards?"

Her chest was heaving, her throat tight following the tirade and Hermione was vaguely aware of wide eyes, slacked jaws, and shocked expressions around the table all aimed at her.

After a pregnant pause, a moment of silence that was permeated only by Hermione's ragged breathing, Kingsley cleared his throat and lifted a hand, in a fashion that was fleetingly reminiscent of the late Albus Dumbledore, to gesture at the brunette's recently vacated seat, wordlessly prompting her to sit back down.

Hermione slowly lowered herself onto the scarred wooden chair and worried her lower lip with the blunt edges of her teeth. She had just shouted at the wizard who could very well be the next Minister for Magic as well as some of the most skilled duelists on the side of the light and as the fight and ire slowly evaporated from her blood, Hermione found that she could meet none of their gazes now; a tinge of pink coloring her cheeks as she kept her eyes downcast.

"We are not saying that we do not believe you," Kingsley explained calmly, "On the contrary, following the war, the body of Bellatrix Lestrange was unaccounted for despite the many eye witness testimonies of having seen her be killed. Of course this has not been publicly confirmed just yet."

"So you're basically saying that you suspect a deranged witch with strong ties to Voldemort is on the loose and you have not warned the public?" Harry asked hotly, outright glaring at Kingsley, "Hermione could have been killed, you realize."

Hermione let out a soft sigh, noting the ire lacing her best friend's words. While she knew they were coming from a place of concern, the strangest feeling of annoyance wriggled about in her chest like an earthworm after a heavy rain. She was tired of being portrayed as a hypothetical victim. Had she not proved herself both brave and capable on more than one occasion? Granted, she could have been killed in that nameless wood but she had not. If anything, regardless of how dangerous and impulsive it seemed, she had pretty much captured Bellatrix Lestrange and hand delivered her to a location where she was sure to be found, taken into custody and tried. She had done that. Hermione Granger.

So entangled in her own thoughts was she that Hermione didn't realize everyone was staring at her again, waiting for her to answer a question that she had not heard. "Sorry," she murmured, a tad sheepish, "Can you repeat that please?"

"We were saying that the Knight Bus conductor must be questioned as you claimed you originally encountered Lestrange there." This brusque response came from one of the Aurors whose name Hermione had not figured out yet. He looked cross about something, his dark brows furrowed, his hands clenched, as if this meeting were causing him a disturbance he had not yet spoken on but was reaching some sort of final straw.

Hermione however had encountered far more terrifying things than an Auror with a bad attitude and her face expressed as much when she met his dark glaring eyes and said in a level dead pan, "Do what you must to get her."

Nothing more needed to be said and things moved rapidly with a powerful fervor. Orders were barked out and plans made. A large roll of parchment was unrolled on the now cleared kitchen table, a blueprint of Malfoy Manor drawn by wandtip. Figure x's and arrows dotted about the manor's main entrances indicating where each Auror would be positioned for the raid.

After several minutes of this, Hermione found herself becoming overwhelmed and rose from the table, leaving the now stifling kitchen for a breath of fresh air. Harry watched her go a few moments later excused himself too. He found the brunette standing just outside the short door that led into the Burrow's garden.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly, his unruly black hair whipped around his head by the late spring breeze.

"I don't know," Hermione murmured, her gaze focused out into the wilderness. She was being honest. She didn't know if she was all right. She felt nothing like herself anymore. The war had irrevocably altered something in her but deep down Hermione knew it wasn't just that. It couldn't be and in some strange perverse way, she also knew it had something to do with Bellatrix Lestrange. Exactly what, she was unsure, but the moment she had laid eyes on the demented witch aboard the Knight Bus, it was like all that the war had crumbled in a cracked in her had been further torn into a jagged chasm that instead of being desolate and empty, was filled to the brim with something alien, raw, and desperate.

Hermione was not able to put this into words.

"I know it's been hard for you, since everything...and Ron," as Harry went on, he sounded as if he were being strangled, the words uttered haltingly as if his voice box was trying to reel them back in even as he spoke, "Sometimes I can't help but feel its all my fault, all those people killed because of me."

Internally, Hermione screamed with frustration. This was it again, wasn't it? The mental martyrdom that Harry was best known for. "Voldemort and his followers killed them. Not you."

He flinched, green eyes flashed with surprise, or shock, more than likely at the undertone of brittle ice that frosted Hermione's words. But she did not take it back nor apologize.

It didn't matter if she had or not because her best friend seemed to recover in the next moment, even going so far as to place a slightly trembling hand on her shoulder. Hermione tried her hardest not to immediately shrug him off.

"Right, well. The Aurors are on it. We're going to get her Hermione."

As if she needed his reassurance. "Yes," she murmured in the same brittle manner before she turned and slowly walked back into the house.

* * *

The great obsidian and cream eagle landed on the highest bough of a large tree at the edge of a cliff, its amber eyes surveying the terrain. Slate grey waters reflected an overcast sky and the brisk mountain air ruffled its plumage. A thin, misty fog rose above the choppy water obscuring a black mass in the distance. With a shrill screech, the eagle took flight through the fog, its large wings cutting the air like a black sword as it soared.

The mist slowly thinned away and the black mass coming steadily closer took shape. It was a large manor home atop an expanse of tall and wildly unkempt grass and weeds. Waves broke against the rocky shores surrounding the structure on all sides, flavoring the windy air with faint traces of salt and minerals. The eagle took a dive, propelling itself toward the earth. As it came in for a landing, legs and feet replaced talons, wings took the shape of human arms, and feathers lengthened and spiralled into a mess of tangled curls.

Bellatrix Lestrange stood before the estate she had inherited upon her father's death. It had not been her childhood home but had found its use as a strong hold for the cause. Protected under more enchantments and wards than an average witch or wizard could cast on their own, it could only be discovered when one was aware of what they sought. A varient of the Fidelus Charm, she was but one of its three secret keepers. And now two of them were dead.

Bending at the waist to pick up the sharpest rock she could find in the grass, she split the skin of her palm and smeared the blood along the archway of the heavy bolted door. As it slowly creaked open, Bellatrix stepped inside. As if aware of her presence, the manor came to life. Candles lit themsleves in the various wicks, flames flickered and crackled in the stone fireplace. The smell of moldy earth and salt was thick in the stagnant air and dust and cobwebs covered the old furniture.

Bellatrix could not care less about the evidence of neglect however as she walked about, reaquainting herself with the place that had seen her receive the Dark Mark over twenty years before. The room where the Dark Lord had stood and given her her orders the night he had decided to attack the Potters.

" _Go on_ ," the smooth, mocking voice of her Horcrux filled her head, her ears, surrounding her and robbing her of breath. She clutched at the closest solid thing she could reach _, "Mourn the monster, Bella. Mourn the monster whose mere memory will drag you down into the same hell he is rotting in. Time ticks away. She waits..._ "

There was no laughter this time as the voice faded away. Oxygen filled her lungs now in a series of sharp gasps, the pounding of her heart against her ribs almost painful. Fingers curled into rigid claws, knifing themselves through her wild curls, pulling the brittle strands hard enough to make her eyes water. Bellatrix threw back her head and shrieked, the sound raw and primal, shrill with anguish and fear. She had been cast out by the sole member of her family to whom she had any connection, her mind and body was possessed by a tormented piece of her soul, and the only person in the entire world who could save her from herself was a sniveling child who she would dearly love to tear limb from limb.

The dying scream echoed throughout the safe house. Safe, a funny word that, for she would never be safe. Not without the Mudblood.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** _ So sorry for the delay! Well, it appears our Bella is 'safe' for the time being - albeit losing it a bit - while on Hermione's side they're preparing for a stand-off. But what's going to happen when they arrive at the manor to discover that...? Ah, but many of you are wondering the exact same thing. Next chapter dears, please stay tuned. On a more somber note, if any of my readers have been effected by what has happened in Manchester, my heart and prayers of strength and healing are with you. Until next time -bellanoire, over and out!


	9. Chapter 9

_**Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **IX**

Killing Teeny had not been part of the initial plan, but the Elf had simply seen and heard too much. Narcissa would have much preferred to set the creature free, but the risk of exposure was far too great. All it might take was a kind word, a simpering grin, or the offer of a very important task and the House Elf would surely sing like a canary. They were known to be loyal to their masters, but the youngest Black sister had learned from an early age that only family could be trusted and even then, to an extent; as her own actions against her eldest sister had proven just hours before, she thought to herself with a bitter chuckle that effectively masked a sob. Still, the poison had been fast acting and painless, a draught she had brewed herself sometime after the Dark Lord's occupation of the manor, kept in a safe place just in case she needed to permanently remove herself and her son from the sorcerer's overzealous endeavors. There had been no need for cruelty. Teeny had merely fallen asleep upon imbibing of the potion at her Mistress' behest, the Elf's heartbeat slowing gently until it had stopped altogether. And of course the body had been properly disposed of, providing an additional and quite clever measure of security.

All that was left now was to get rid of the memory of her disguised sister's impromptu visit. Though trained in the art of Occlumency by one of the best Legilimens she had ever known, Bellatrix herself, every precaution had to be taken. It was not a matter of if, but when would the Ministry's Aurors swarm her home like ravenous locusts on the word of Hermione Granger, the Wizarding World's precious Golden Girl. She was not as naive as Bella had for the longest time seemed to believe she was. Verily, the image of the pampered daughter and wife of the Pureblood aristocracy with her lifelong epithet of being merely 'the pretty one' had been violently stripped away from her only to reveal a witch who had seen more pain, mental anguish, fear, and betrayal than most could attest to ever experiencing. Narcissa Malfoy knew that when one was tasked with the duty of protecting and saving their family, any and all means were deemed necessary. Even if that meant the turning away of a once beloved sister and the death of an innocent servant.

The process of extracting a memory was usually uncomfortable, sometimes painful for the spell caster and as Narcissa stood in her chambers, an uncorked vial at the ready and her wand pressed firmly against her temple, she paused to brace herself for the withdrawal.

"Mother."

The sound of her son's voice behind her after the weeks of constant silence simultaneously chilled and warmed the Lady Malfoy to the core. A flinch-like twitch and a subtle tremble of her lower lip were the only indications of being affected by it that managed to trickle through the cracks of her renowned glacial composure however, and the blonde haired witch drew a steady pull of oxygen in through her nose, schooling her features with a well practiced air before turning around to lay eyes on Draco for what felt like the first time since the war had ended, her wand clutched in her right hand tightly enough to leave an imprint as she slowly lowered it down to her side.

"Yes, darling?"

She could tell immediately the term of endearment took him aback by the quirk of his brows. He was so much like Lucius, it stung to look at him. Narcissa was in there as well though - the cheekbones and the angularity of his facial features were characteristic of the Noble House of Black. Funny how she had been a Malfoy for so many years, it was almost a shocking realization that Draco was just as much a Black as she, her sisters, and their father had been. The awkward shifting of his body weight from one foot to the other alerted his mother to the fact that he had spoken and she blinked to clear her mind.

"I'm sorry?"

"What's happened?" Draco's tone was flat, his eyes dulled horridly, no longer their gleaming silver grey. The muscles in his jaw were tense, so too were the ones in his shoulders as if he were attempting to draw himself to his full height and curl in around himself at the same time. He appeared to be already anticipating the worst in the way that only someone who had seen the worst could do. Narcissa would give her life to alleviate her son of that strain.

Lying was out of the question as was telling the complete truth. "The Aurors are coming here. I have taken care of everything, you are not to worry. If anything unexpected should happen, Draco, you know what to do."

'What to do' being the plan the three of them had made before Lucius' sentencing, the plan that ensured their sole heir would be safe and financially capable to leave behind the tatters of their former life. It was a last resort, though not to the same extreme as the potion had been. Neither she nor Lucius had wanted their son to become a pariah due to their choices and ideals and leaving England for a chance at a clean slate seemed like the best course of action as far as she and her husband were concerned.

Narcissa could read the displeasure and the desire to protest plainly on Draco's face before he even said a word. "I am _not_ leaving you behind, mother, I don't care what happens. If there has been a situation and our safety has been compromised, we should leave now."

The maturity in the statement even spoken around that deadened tone filled the witch with pride. Her baby boy, her little dragon had without her even realizing it become a man, and while her heart did ache to see it occur so soon, she was proud nonethless. Setting her wand and the vial on her vanity table, she strode forward and embraced her son, holding him to her for a long while, ignoring the way he tensed initially, holding on until he eventually relaxed and allowed her to kiss his hair. Stepping back several moments later, Lady Malfoy realized she was crying when a warm drop of moisture rolled down her cheek. She took Draco's face between her hands.

"They will come and we don't want to arouse suspicion, do we? You will stay out of sight and at the ready and if need be I will give you our signal and we will go. Do you understand?"

Draco nodded, his expression determined despite the lackluster of his eyes. With all she had in her, Narcissa vowed she would return the glimmer he had lost a hundredfold.

"Now let me finish this please, little dragon, they will be here soon."

Left alone, the Lady Malfoy retrieved her wand and the vial with a steadiness in her hands that had not been present before. Whatever should happen now, it did not matter. She and her son would be safe.

* * *

Hermione's heart was pounding so hard in her chest, she was sure everyone could hear it. It was not from fear though, but anticipation. More than anything, perhaps even more than she hoped the Aurors would find Bellatrix Lestrange at Malfoy Manor, she wanted a drink. A shot of vodka, a sip of firewhiskey, even a glass of wine might take the edge off of the tumultous emotions that stormed violently in her head. She longed for the burn that accompanied the first swallow, and the numbness that followed on its heels. The buzzing chatter that filled the air, the Weasleys, the Aurors, Harry, and Kingsley, it was beginning to grate on her nerves. It seemed as though they had gone over every plan, every strategy, every drawback backwards and forwards. And the _questions_. How many times did they expect her to answer the same sodding questions? She felt like a scratched CD, replaying the same idiotic line from an even more idiotic song. The brunette felt as if her head just might pop clean off of her shoulders, and in her withdrawal fueled ire, she longed for such a thing to happen as it was certain to put an abrupt end to the lunacy.

She scratched absentmindedly at the scar on her arm, shifting her weight from one leg to the next, trying desperately to suppress the urge to scream. If she started, she was sure she might not stop. Perhaps this was how Bellatrix felt. Like a caged tiger in the zoo with hoards of shrieking snot nosed brats and their burned out overweight parents gawking and pointing while it lounged in its artifical habitat, dreaming of nothing but mauling its captors and their guests to death. Hermione shook her head in an attempt to clear it. Empathizing with Bellatrix Lestrange in even the _smallest_ of ways could not be at all good for her mental psyche.

"Hermione?" Molly Weasley asked in a soft but steady tone, effectively and thankfully derailing the brunette's train of thought, "Are you ready dear? Its time."

Bloody finally. Finally the restlessness would have an outlet. Meeting the gazes of the witches and wizards eying her with rather annoying looks, Hermione gave a sharp nod. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner she could be nursing a bottle in the Leaky Cauldron, with one less thing to worry about. It was all just so much. Ron's death and the vexing emotions that had plagued her since, her parents being missing, fribbling away their days in Australia with no clue they even had daughter. The nightmares that all involved screams, bloodshed, flashes of green light, and mad, high pitched cackles. The fact that she no longer was and never again would be the know it all Muggleborn Hermione Granger but forever and always one half of the Golden Trio who had helped bring about the demise of the darkest wizard of all time. With Bellatrix captured, it had to at least help lessen the buckling weight of those burdens.

Or at least that was what she had to tell herself in order to press on and take hold of someone's hand - it may have been Harry's, might have been one of the Auror's, it could have even been the interim Minster for Magic's himself - and surrender to the sickening feeling if side along Apparating to the grounds of Malfoy Manor.

It was ironic. The place had haunted her nightmares most prominently in the first few months after the torture. Now, when those scenes flashed in between the other dreams, they were almost like a reprieve. She could deal with and would take the memory of being tortured over the memory of seeing one of her dearest friends and boyfriend burn alive, or the castle that had nurtured her growing mind for six years reduced to rubble. Would prefer it to reaching out into the void for a mother and a father who would sooner recognize a passing stranger on the street before they did her.

The front gate of the manor was exactly the same as she remembered it, intricately curved wrought iron, thrumming with the pulse of magical wards. The face that emerged from the misty shadows of the interior however, was not the same. Where there had been tangles of ebony curls, now there were tresses of sleek blonde. Where there had been eyes carved from obsidian, there were now eyes forged from steel. Even the arrogant jut of the chin was different. Hermione could not fathom in that moment how sisters so close could be oh so starkly different.

"How may I help you Minister?"

Even the two voices were not the same. The other's had encapsulated the heat of wildfire, was laced with thick smoke, while the one that had just spoken held the chill of the winter frost and was as brittle as thin ice.

"Madam Malfoy, we have strong reason to believe you are harboring a fugitive" Shacklebolt sated, his tone not harsh but steady and leaving no room for argument, "By the power bestowed upon me as the interim Minister for Magic, I request that we be permitted to search your home and grounds for Bellatrix Lestrange."

Through the bars of the gate, Narcissa Malfoy for a moment looked as if she had been simultaneously slapped in the face and struck in the chest. It was fleeting, the expression, gone before anyone who had not been diligently guaging her face for a reaction could have seen.

"By all means, Minister," the blonde witch relented, deactivating the wards with a flick of her wand, "You may carry out your search."

It took nary but a few minutes to discern that Bellatrix was nowhere on the premises. Narcissa stood back as the Aurors and those that had accompanied them convened into the drawing room, the very place where the skirmish had occured months prior.

"I trust you did not find anything, Minister?" she murmured and Hermione could detect a trace of the renowned Malfoy smugness seeping through the statement.

"That's because you've hidden her somewhere else," the brunette spat, striding furiously toward the lady of the house, shrugging away from a hand that meant to still or calm her, "I know she was here, I brought her here myself. Tell us where she is right now or you'll be rotting in a cell right next to your dear husband."

"How dare you," Narcissa uttered on a lethal purr, "You come into my home, harassing me about my deceased sister and you insult my husband. Your filthy Muggle heritage is showing, Miss Granger."

"Madam Malfoy, your sister's body was never accounted for among the casualites after the battle," Kingsley cut in before the tossing of insults could continue.

"I was not aware it was a crime for the next of kin to recover the remains of their family members," Narcissa countered, slowly walking to the marble mantle of the room's ornate fireplace and placing a deceivingly delicate alabaster hand atop what appeared to be an antique jar. "If you wish to arrest my sister, I ask that you leave the urn. A Black family heirloom, you see, even if just a little morbid to be called such."

The stunned silence that followed the blonde's revelation was nearly palpable. There were even expressions of what looked suspiciously like pity. As if the majority of those who were supposed to be here to capture a criminal were actually taking the nonsnese that Narcissa Malfoy was dishing out and swallowing it whole.

"Are you all _daft_?" Hermione all but screeched, her voice, shrill with anger and disbelief, "She is lying! I brought that evil woman here last night, right here! She is not dead! She's as alive as alive can be and while we're all standing here being made fools of by the same person who managed to blatantly and convingingly lie to bloody Voldemort, Bellatrix Lestrange is at large!"

The grey of Narcissa's eyes flashed like sharpened knives and she lifted her chin in a display of haughty arrogance as she stared the brunette down. "Word travels rather quickly nowadays, Miss Granger, what with the Dark Lord gone and the reputations of the most prominent Pureblood families reduced to shreds. Are you quite sure it was my dead sister you claim you saw? Andromeda favors her greatly and dark hair is not all that uncommon is it? Perhaps you made a simple error, yes? Overindulgence in alcohol can do that to a person."

The next moment was a blur, all jumbled together like a child's jigsaw puzzle. Looking back on it, Hermione would guess that maybe she had blacked out or had simply snapped. She was aware of a loud, manaical scream coming from deep within her, reverberating against the drawing room's high ceilings. She would remember her hands grabbing at flaxen hair and several other hands grabbing at her in an attempt to pull her away. She would remember the way her screams melded together to form one word that got stuck on repeat, "Liar! Liar! Liar!" and the statement that followed, laced with a desperation she did not understand, "I _needed_ you!"

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ Hello my lovely readers! I hope everyone has enjoyed their summer and the last few weeks left of it. I've been insanely busy myself and finally found some time to post the next installment of LODD. Don't worry, there will not be such a long wait for the next update. Well as you can see things are starting to get real...and Hermione is getting dangerously close to some kind of breaking point, if she hasn't reached it alreaady. I mean, attacking Narcissa has got to have some repercussions, no? What's going to happen now? Stay tuned, please stay tuned. Even with the two and a half month wait, the love this story has received is truly inspiring. Thank you all so much for the support and until next time! bellanoire, over and out!


	10. Chapter 10

_**Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **X**

The air was tense at the Burrow, no one knowing quite what to say or do in the aftermath of what had happened at Malfoy Manor. The Aurors had departed, unable to find substantial evidence to build a solid case. Narcissa had not been taken into custody. That decision had not been a unanimous one though. The Aurors had been split on the matter, with one half wanting to employ a more hands on approach to questioning, and the other wanting to bide their time and wait for any suspicious activity to occur before getting involved. The interim Minister for Magic made the decision in the end to side with the latter half.

Once they were on their way back to the Ministry via the Floo Network, Kingsley remained in the kitchen and faced Molly and Arthur, his expression grim.

"She needs help." The statement was like a crack of thunder despite the hushed tone in which it had been spoken. There was no clarification needed in regards to the 'she' Kingsley Shacklebolt was referring to. "Her behavior as of late has been erratic and self destructive. As ironic as it sounds, Madam Malfoy would have been within every right to press assault charges against Miss Granger."

"Thank Merlin she didn't," Molly Weasley whispered, clearly still stricken and disturbed by the scene they had all witnessed, "I- I had no idea Hermione was so strongly affected -"

"We all have been affected in some way or another," Arthur cut in, his tone soft with reassurance as he slipped his hand into his wife's, "We have all suffered losses and are constantly plagued by thoughts of the war. She will come around, I'm sure of it."

Kingsley sighed and slowly shook his head, "I understand what you are saying, Arthur, I do. But in this case, I don't believe this is something Miss Granger can simply 'come around' to. I have heard the talk, you see, and it is not merely the substance abuse and the wandering about at odd hours of the night. It is all of that, as well as the hysterics, the accusations, the aggression. Perhaps this is something that time cannot heal. Not on its own anyway. We cannot merely sit back and watch as Mis Granger continues to become a danger to herself and to others."

Mrs. Weasley had tears in her eyes now as she clutched her chest with her free hand, her breathing shallow as she she tried to rein in her emotions, "What are you suggesting Kingsley? H-how would we help Hermione?"

"Mandatory sessions with a Soul Healer," he replied without missing a beat, "The Dai Llewellyn ward of St. Mungo's has a renowned staff and I am quite confident that they can provide Miss Granger with the rehabilition she so evidently needs."

The Weasley's were stunned for a moment, eyes widened as they both realized what exactly it was that Kingsley was proposing.

"You want to commit her," Arthur finally spoke their thoughts aloud, "You want her to stay there until it can be proven she has fully recovered."

"We can't do that to her Kingsley," Molly was emphatic, her body positively trembling, "She's like a daughter to us. We've known her her whole life, she's not mad."

"It isn't a case of being mad or not, Molly, that isn't at all what I'm insinuating. I do not believe Miss Granger is mad but she _is_ heading down a precarious path and I believe being in the constant company of a Soul Healer for some time will benefit her in the end."

It was the exchanged glances and the relatively loud silence following his words that made it known to Kingsley Shacklebolt that his point had been made and even if not yet agreed upon, at least was potentially being considered. After all, he had known Molly and Arthur Weasley for years, had mourned the loss of their sons as if he himself had too lost a child, and knew that they stood by a faith that he and the Order of Phoenix shared - the faith in the greater good.

It was in Miss Granger's best interests to see the Soul Healer and though she may not agree- and he knew this without even having to speak to the girl himself - as he made to take his leave, he trusted the Weasleys to make her see reason. Hermione Granger was one of the saviors of the Wizarding World, it would pain him deeply to have the Ministry formally involved.

* * *

Hermione paced the Burrow's wild, sprawling garden in a futile attempt to calm down. She could not believe that she had attacked Narcissa Malfoy in the very place she had been tortured. What was happening to her? She could feel it, a strange buzzing that seemed to lay just under her skin, fueling her frazzled emotions until they all leaked right through her fragile control like water in cupped hands. She recognized it, as she was sure it was the same thing that coaxed her to reach for another drink even after it was evident she was teetering on the edge that separated tipsy haze from the thick fog of intoxication, but yet it was different. Somehow she felt as if there was an entity, separate from herself, that took over, consumed her, possessed her. She didn't know, couldn't put it into words and perhaps the frustration it caused was simply one emotion too many to add to the storm. And what happened when a storm grew too intense?

Damage of catastrophic proportions.

 _'I needed you'_ had been the almost tearfully impassioned words she had spoken, and for the life of her, Hermione could not figure out what it had meant nor from where the words had come. They had strung themselves into a sentence that had seemed to not come from her but _through_ her, laced with a meaning she could not comprehend. Merlin, she was losing it.

She knew one thing was certain. If Narcissa Malfoy _was_ hiding Bellatrix, and she had to be hiding her _somewhere_ , the Ministry would probably never find her now. And it was all her fault. Her credibility had surely gone out the proverbial window the second she had blindly launched herself at the blonde haired witch. She, Hermiome Granger, the damned Golden Girl, had all but single-handedly aided in the elusion of capture and subsequent escape of one of the most notorious criminals the Wizarding World had ever seen. What a bloody mess.

"Hermione."

The brunette whirled around at the sound of Harry's voice and knew immediately that this conversation would be nothing at all like the one they'd had prior to the search at Malfoy Manor. There was a crease of displeasure between his dark brows, nostrils slightly flared, and his lips were pressed together tightly to form a thin line. For one fleeting, bizarrely amusing moment, he reminded her vaguely of Professor McGonagall. Only far less intimidating. She did not laugh, her face remaining as passive as she could possibly make it. Her clenched fists, however, surely gave away her simmerimg ire.

"Harry."

"What did you think you were doing?"

"Trying to catch Bellatrix Lestrange." Her tone was brusque, a knife's edge slicing through the dark witch's name.

"How? By beating her sister up?"

Hermione gave a derisive snort, "I hardly beat her up."

Harry's eyes widened with incredulity, "'Mione, we had to _pry_ you away from her. You were fighting us, shouting crazy things. The Aurors were about to hex you, do you know that?"

"Oh, the irony," she muttered with a flat, humorless chuckle, "They would have hexed me to get _me_ away from _her_ when she's the one lying to protect a murderer."

"I believe her."

The words were spoken on a whisper but they still met Hermione's ears and it was her turn to adopt a look of shock and disbelief. "Y-you believe her?" It was like trying to speak while someone had their hand closed tightly around her throat. If she thought back to that day in the drawing room of the manor they had just returned from, she could remember what that had felt like. Bellatrix's ice cold fingers locked in a vicegrip, cutting off her air supply even as her lungs worked aimlessly to function just enough for her to plead with her to understand that she had stolen nothing from her vault. "You believe her. Over me."

Harry ran a hand roughly through his unruly hair, making it even more disheveled in appearance. "You saw her fall during the Battle, Hermione. You saw the urn. She's dead. I dunno who you think you saw the other night, but I'd bet my Galleons it wasn't her. It couldn't be."

" _Fuck_ the urn! Don't you know how easily one of them could have gotten their hands on some hapless Muggle, murdered them, and then filled that bloody urn with ashes or dirt or Merlin only knows what! Just to help with their ruse! Just to keep up their lie!" Really, how could they all be so stupid, she wondered. Was she the only one with a brain? Maybe.

Harry's floored look of bewilderment upon hearing her harshly swear for perhaps the first time in his life went nowhere even as he gave his rebuttal, "If Kingsley had suspected anything like that, he would have had her taken to the Ministry at once. Or at least administered Veritaserum right there on the spot."

"You all are hopeless," the brunette all but growled, "Tell me this. If it wasn't Bellatrix Lestrange I Apparated to Malfoy Manor last night, who was it then?"

"How can we be sure you were even _there_?" Harry shot back, anger now breaching the defenses of his previous calm, "You were taken to St. Mungo's, maybe a potion gave you a nightmare or something."

"Gave me a nightmare? Harry James Potter, you really _are_ an idiot. All these years and I can finally see it plain as day."

"Only an idiot would be blind to the fact that the Malfoys have suffered enough."

"They've suffered enough?!" she was shouting now, uncaring of who heard. Let them all hear. "They haven't suffered _nearly_ enough!" She could not believe that her best friend of eight years had all but turned on her after all she had done with him, for him. It was a betrayal that flooded through her like a rogue wave breaking on a parched shore.

"She saved my life Hermione! She lied to Voldemort and because of her I'm standing here right now," Harry's voice was harsh though she was unfazed by it, "Even Draco. In the Manor. He knew it was me and he didn't say anything. And even if he hadn't recognized _me_ , he sure as hell knew you and R-Ron."

The stumble over Ron's name only incensed Hermione further, her rage so deep that the sadness, that usually that shot through her upon hearing the name of her dead boyfriend, was immediately snuffed out. "And how do you think he would feel about what you're doing? What you're saying? You're disrespecting his memory by allowing that woman and her sister to go free. After what they did to me!"

The arrival of the Weasley family, drawn to the garden by all the shouting diverted Hermione's attention away from the devastated look on Harry's face as a result of her remark.

"What on earth is going on?" Molly panted, her eyes like everyone else's darting back and forth between Harry and Hermione.

"Nothing," Harry muttered, his tone heavy as he stared fixedly at the grass, "Just a-a misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding my arse!" Hermione hissed, ignoring the gasps at her language, turning wild eyed to face the Weasleys, "None of you believe me either, do you. About Bellatrix. _Do_ you?"

"Now, now," Arthur, ever the peacemaker, said, "Hermione we never said we don't believe you. There just isn't any evidence to what you're claiming. Not yet."

"Or not _ever_!" Ginny chimed in, her face flushed as she moved to stand by Harry's side, "I heard what you said, how could you be so careless. Ron's death is painful to all of us. Especially Harry."

"Harry, Harry, Harry!" the brunette spat viciously, her features twisted to form a thunderous expression, "That's all anyone in the entire Wizarding World cares about. Harry! What about me? What about poor little Mudblood Hermione Granger? What? You think I've had my nose shoved so far into a book all my life that I don't _feel_? You think I don't hurt too? You think I don't suffer every single day? Is that what you all think? That I should just get over myself because Harry Potter is suffering more than all of us?"

She had snapped. The frail strand of her rapidly decaying composure had disintegrated. There was no going back from this. There was no more pretending. It was out in the open now for them all to hear. And Hermione could not bring herself to give even an ounce of a damn. If her head had been clear and her heart not trying to beat itself out of her ribcage under the influence of so much adrenaline flooding her blood, she would have realized that she felt more alive in that moment than she had felt since the end of the war.

For the second time that day, Hermione had stunned everyone around her into silence. Not even a bird chirped. And then Arthur Weasley cleared his throat.

"Erm, we need to talk to Hermione. In private. So if you all could give us-"

"No," the brunette cut him off with a shake of her head, "Whatever you have to say to me can be said right now. I haven't bitten my tongue, so I don't expect you to do the same." What could they do? Ban her from the Burrow? Without Ron, this place would never feel like home again. Insult her? Well, Bellatrix Lestrange had done them all one better when she had etched one of the worst slurs in their world into her skin for all time.

"We really should talk to you about this alone, Hermione," Arthur tried again, beside him his wife's expression was imploring.

"Just tell me!" She was almost certain it had to do with what had happened at Malfoy Manor. Perhaps Narcissa Malfoy had pressed charges on her. Perhaps she would be sent to Azkaban. It was with a somewhat hysterical snort that she realized perhaps Azkaban might not be so bad if it meant she would be away from all the eyes that were currently watching her with disbelief, anger, and pity.

"Kingsley has made a suggestion," Arthur said with heavy sigh, clearly uncomfortable with having the discussion with an audience, "For a way to cope with your feelings."

"If it doesn't involve Bellatrix Lestrange being hogtied and delivered straight to Azkaban to be kissed by a Dementor, I don't want to -"

"A Soul Healer," Molly interrupted before the brunette could complete the thought, "At St. Mungo's. And after what's just happened, I think he may be right."

Hermione's jaw dropped. And so did her core temperature, or so it seemed. She felt as if she had walked through a ghost. Or jumped into an icy pond. "He wants to lock me up in St. Mungo's with the loons." It was callous, but judging by the looks on the faces of the Weasley parents, it was true. "I won't. I refuse."

"We're afraid it might be necessary, dear. You've said it yourself, you aren't doing well at all."

"Please, we only want what's best for you."

More was being said about the apparent loss of her mind from the others in attendance but Hermione tuned it out as she made quick and determined strides to the house. She did not care to acknowledge the voices following behind her, the pleas, the attempts at reassurance. She was done with it all. Done with the Weasleys. Done with Harry. Done with Bellatrix Lestrange. Done with the magical world altogether. With the acception of the enchanted beaded bag that held all the worldy possessions she had left within its bottomless depths.

"Hermione please don't do this," Molly Weasley begged tearfully, "We love you."

Turning for one last look at the people who had been her second family, people she had cared for, fought for, bled for, her eyes landing lastly on Harry, unable to read the expression on his face and not really wanting to she said, "Goodbye" and Apparated out of the Burrow..

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ And there it is. The first third of LODD is complete. I think I've set the scene well enough for my lovely, incredibly lovely readers to see just where everyone is at mentally, emotionally, and physically. Or at least I hope I did ;) And Bella, my baby Bella, returns in the next chapter and I know alot of you have been waiting -quite patiently might I add - for that as well as the actual Bellamione aspect. After all, that is what it's all about, yes? It's coming. Slowly but surely, but we will get there. Keep your seatbeats on loves, it just gets bumpier as we go along. Thank you so so much for the support and seriously?! 2,000 views in a week?! I am amazed and so incredibly grateful. Please let me know your thoughts, its such a joy to read your feedback! Until next update my dears -bellanoire, over and out!


	11. Chapter 11

_**Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **XI**

Time had a way of passing in the most peculiar manner. It could speed by like a Snitch released before the start of a Quidditch match. Or it could drag listlessly like a slug in the dirt. During her bid in Azkaban, time had gone so slowly it had eventually lost its meaning. An hour could have been a day, a month, a year for all she knew. She had passed it trying not to succumb to the venemous tendrils of insanity. Though of course, no one had ever given her credit for it. But that was no matter. It made the role of a deranged murderer such a convincing one to play. Even she began to believe it after a while. At present, ironically enough with her clearly imminent demise looming in the near future, ever fickle time seemed to have sprouted wings.

It had been a month since Bellatrix had arrived in the safe house. Only eleven more to go.

For someone that had literally sentenced herself to death, she was getting along quite well. She appreciated the solitude, which was not at all like the bone chillingly dark isolation she had experienced in Azkaban. She had an elf, a descendent of the one she had left behind, who was more than eager to serve Mistress Bella even though 'Mistress Bella is not looking like herself'. It had been unnecessary to have to convince the creature of who she really was. She would not have been able to breach the premises otherwise and that was all the proof that had been needed.

There was food. There were clothes. And of the spare wands that had been stashed away all those years ago, she had found one that was tolerable. Ebony wood and dragon heartstring. It did not feel at all like her walnut wand. The core, though of the same material, did not sing to her magic the way her own did. Everytime she cast a spell, she was overcome with the reminder that it was not hers, it had not chosen her. There were no years of familiarity in the wood, no loyalty. It was like wearing a pair of shoes that had been deliberately put on the wrong foot. Still, it was capable enough for comfort. It had managed to help her demolish the room in which the Dark Lord had held his last meeting on that fateful Halloween night. Reduced it to rubble and smiled triumphantly at her work, she had, declining the house elf's nearly beseeching offer to put it back to rights. Perhaps she might allow it, eventually, just to destroy it again. For now, Bellatrix thoroughly enjoyed it the way it was and the smell of scorched wallpaper and furnishings that lingered throughout the house.

The Horcrux had been blessedly silent thus far, though in its wake had left an odd though subtle buzzing sensation, just under her skin, she noticed shortly after waking this morning. It had happened before and was easy enough to ignore as she went about her day. The repetition of her temporary existence was not nearly as cumbersome as she had thought it would become. The Elf, Kritter, prepared her breakfast -if taking one's first meal of the day well after noon could be considered breakfast - after which, if the weather allowed, she walked along the shore of the lake. After being locked away for so long, the freedom to stretch her legs and take in the freshly crisp air, to feel her wild curls blowing unbound in the wind was the epitome of freedom. It was a luxury too many took for granted. When the sun was due to set or rain clouds rolled in -whichever happened first - she retired into the house's remarkably large and well stocked library until Kritter brought her a light supper and it was time to adjourn to bed to repeat it all over again in a few hours.

It was doing wonders for her health. Too bad it would eventually go to waste.

Thunderous clouds hung low in the sky, crackling with the electric promise of a storm. Bellatrix sat curled upon a dusty threadbare armchair in the library, her bare feet tucked warmly beneath her black skirts as she unfolded the latest copy of the Daily Prophet, absentmindedly indulging in a box of chocolate truffles courtesy of Kritter.

Amusement danced merrily across her face as her eyes roved greedily over the blaring headline on the front page. _'Tarnished Gold: War Heroine Missing'_. It appeared the Mudblood had garnered quite a bit of negative attention, and as the dark witch read on, she could not help but utter a snicker of mirth.

 _'She was never the same after my brother's tragic death,' good friend Ginny Weasley stated yesterday afternoom, the crushing weight of sadness burdening her features, 'They would have been engaged, like Harry and I. We were planning a double wedding.'_

 _Lifelong friend and Savior of the Wizarding World, Harry Potter seen clutching the hand of his betrothed also shared a few words of concern, 'We are all really worried about 'Mione. No one has seen or heard from her in weeks. We just want her to come home so she can get the help she needs'_

Some friends they were, the former Death Eater thought with a sniff of disdain. Even if it _was_ just the Mudblood whose personal affairs were being being made public by those that were closest to her, she still found it rather foul. Discretion was one of the first rules most proper Purebloods had drilled into their heads from infancy, right after the rule that stated under no circumstance should one have relations with Mudbloods or their disgustingly inferior parents.

Regardless of whether one of those said Mudbloods literally held one's life in their hand.

Rolling her eyes, Bellatrix's continued to skim the page. The next few lines caused a deep frown to crease her dark brows. _'Narcissa Malfoy has confirmed that her sister, one Bellatrix Lestrange, was killed in the Battle of Hogwarts. She has declined an interview for the time being'_

"Never you worry your pretty blonde head Cissy," she muttered to herself with a bitter chuckle, "I shall be six feet under soon enough."

The article went on and on, brimming with more exclusive interviews from former Hogwarts students and 'friends' broadcasting their concern for the girl and her month long disappearance.

 _'We wanted to believe her, we truly did. Encountering Bellatrix Lestrange, her scar burning, there was just not enough proof...'_

The dark witch's eyes narrowed and she unconsciously leaned forward to reread that last line. Burning scar? Realization was about as strange as time. It could occur as subtle as the illuminating tip of a wand at the mutter of 'Lumos' or in a relentless rush like an avalanche of jagged rocks and ice. As was the case now. Bellatrix burst out of the chair with such force, it was nearly knocked over. Like they were bequeathed with a mind of their own, her hands grabbed at several books and heavy tomes filled with pages dedicated to the dark arts and ancient magic, yanking them from the shelves, her breath coming out in short, harsh pants as her heartrate exponentially increased.

Images flashed rapidly before her mind's eye, a memory of the Mudblood pinned beneath her. Terror and pain filled screams that rent the cool air of her sister's home. Tears falling from eyes of the deepest brown that pleaded, that begged her captor to stop. She, ever unyielding, her own mad cackles merging with the high pitched screams to create a horrifically harmonic cacophony. The glint of a silver blade. The raw, unadulterated hatred that seeped into the crevices of her heart, poisoning the already damaged organ, hardening it, erecting an impenetrable fortress against any sympathy that dared manifest itself. The cursed dagger steady in her grip as she carved into tender, unblemished flesh. Flawed justification as she made each cut, the perverse pleasure that drew a wanton groan from her lips at the end result.

When she found what she had not even been aware she was searching for, Bellatrix swayed on the spot. This was not right. Well, no, it _was_ right. What she was reading was most certainly correct. But _how,_ how could she have missed it?

 _"Did you summon me here?"_ The words the girl had spoken on the side of the road came back to her in a rush. Oh, this was wrong. So wrong. And it was with humorless laughter that dangerously bordered on hysteria that Bellatrix realized this was all her fault. The Horcrux had been right. This _connection_ -Merlin's balls she could not even think it - that she evidently shared with the Mudblood, this 'second chance' she had been given had been put into motion the very moment she had decided to mark that girl's skin. There was nothing that could be done to counteract it. Even the petulantly defiant decision she had made to die was rendered null and void. She had no say in it all whatsoever. This was old magic that surpassed will alone. She had no choice. It was only a matter of time before -

A low hiss escaped Bellatrix's lips as the subtle buzzing within her suddenly intensified to a thrumming pulse. Rocking back on her heels, the large book tumbled from her hands as she gripped the edges of the shelf tightly, anticipating another episode from the volatile piece of her soul contained within the pendant chain around her neck. But nothing came. Just the unbearable throbbing buzz that rivaled a nest of angry bees. It pitched her forward violently, as if someone had struck her hard in the back to urge her to walk. Verily she had no control over the jerky movements, had not a clue as to where she was being lured.

Her replacement wand was in her hand the next moment as she submitted to the force that was propelling her to the foyer of the safe house. There were no protests in her mind, or on her tongue; she did not try to stop it. The sensation was growing painful now, like millions of pinpricks all over her skin and the only thing that seemed to promise a respite was going wherever her body was hellbent on taking her.

But she knew. Deep down, under the iron grip of compulsion, she knew exactly where she was going. There was nothing to ponder, no confusion. Just the need to go. To get there.

To _her_.

The sharp crack of Disapparation was as loud as the rumbling thunder that rolled across the sky, forboding as it melded together with the crash of the lake's murky waves against the shore.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ This is a noticeably shorter installment to be sure, but honestly I don't aim for any particular word count, I just write until the chapter contains everything it's supposed to. I was so excited to write this chapter. Now that you've read it, I'm sure you can guess why. It is starting. This is not a drill. The Bellamione aspect is starting! Granted, it'll be some time before we get that far up in it, but clearly a line is about to be crossed, yes? Let me know your thoughts and speculations of course. Thanks again so much for all the views, reviews, follows, and favorites. Thoughts and prayers up to anyone who has been effected by the storms. Until next time loves -bellanoire, over and out!


	12. Chapter 12

_**Warning:** Chapter contains scenes of substance and/or alcohol abuse._

* * *

 _ **Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **XII**

The seedy pub was noisy, a turbulent din of incessant chatter, raucous laughter, and loud shouting. The smell of alcohol hung in the stiff air, mingled with sweat, cheap cologne, and perfume. It was an odd combination but Hermione did not mind it in the slightest. She was numb, so deliciously numb. Her mind tumbling, swirling under the effects of all the alcohol she had consumed in a relatively short frame of time. It was like greeting an old friend. A friend who had perhaps forsaken her once or twice, or more, but who the bloody hell was keeping track when said friend was always welcomed back with open arms and vice versa. It felt so good, the fire in her veins, the ethanol flooding her system, combating the pain, combating the anger. It was bliss. A perversely grotesque sort of bliss that she simultaneously wanted to end and never end.

"More."

This was not the Leaky Cauldron. This was not Tom, with his almost fatherly concern and morality driven hesitation. The Muggle behind the bar cared nothing about her, cared not from where she had come, not what she was running away from, nor what sort of demons she carried on her back. So long as she kept the money coming, her glass remained unempty.

"Pretty thing like you. You sure do like the good stuff, don't you," he muttered, his reedy voice laced with desire that should have made her stomach churn, that should have raised internal red flags. But instead, she giggled and gestured sloppily at her glass, watching with glazed eyes as the liquid sloshed into the glass, and steadily rose to the brim.

"Cheers," the bartender said with a wink that Hermione would have under any other circumstance ignored. Without even realizing it, she felt herself winking back in a heavily exaggerated fashion, leaning forward slightly as she did so, which earned her a salacious gnash of crooked teeth and a not so subtle brush of a finger to the back of her hand that rested on the sticky wooden table.

One month to the day. She had left the Burrow one month ago, in a fit of impulsive fury, thinking she was solving all of her problems. Thinking she was giving herself the respite she so desperately needed. Thinking she would be able to facilitate everything in her life going to go back to normal.

But there was no such thing as normal was there? Or perhaps there was and she and normality were no longer compatible. Perhaps she had set this entire thing into motion the moment she had stepped into that compartment on the Hogwarts Express and encountered the dark haired bespectacled boy and his redhead friend while on the search for an old warty toad. Had inadvertently and irrevocably set off the chain of events that would inevitably lead her here when she had cried her eyes out in the bathroom just to be jarred from her emotional moment by a full grown mountain troll. After all, that was when the golden trio, in its infancy, had become official.

Perhaps. Perhaps she would take it all back if she could. Then she would be just another overachieving bookworm, who might have been relentlessly teased, who might not have had any friends. But the war might not have been able to effect her in the same way. Maybe? Even with her being a Muggleborn. She might have been able to flee to Australia with her parents, living a far more peaceful life, untouched by all that was going on.

Her parents. A thousand times she had imagined what it would be like when she found them. She would restore their memories and explain things properly amidst tears and emphatic apologies and then, well they would return to England with her and everything would be as it had been. Her childhood home would be restored to its warm, family unit. The telly would be as loud as her father's claps and cheers over a rugby game, the kitchen smelling divinely as her mother cooked a delicious meal. A light hearted discussion over the dinner table, both of them managing to find a way to whittle in mundane facts and tips for proper oral hygiene. And she would smile and nod and promise to floss twice a day and give up sweets for good. Or something like that.

What had never been apart of these near daily musings, what had never crossed her mind since she had briskly walked the length of a street she knew like the back of her own hand to go off with Harry to find and destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes, leaving a piece of her heart behind was to finally locate her parents in Australia and for them to not return wth her.

It had taken three weeks to find them. Three weeks of searching the country, crushing disappointment when she could find no leads, hope when dots managed to be connected. Hope that gave way to joy when she was able to identify a Mr. and Mrs. Snyder, two dentists who had relocated to the city of Adelaide just shy of a year ago. She knew Snyder to be the maiden name of her maternal grandmother and used that knowledge to conclude her search.

She had been prepared for awkwardness, she had been prepared for confusion, had been prepared even for anger as a result of the considerably callous manipulation of her parents' minds. What Hermione had not been prepared for in no capacity of the word was to ring the doorbell of the Snyder residence and for her mother to open the door with her belly round and distended in the later stages of pregnancy.

There had been no anger once the memory charm had been reveresed. A little confusion to be sure, but she had been allowed to explain. There were kisses and hugs, some tears. Patting of the rounded belly Hermione could not bring herself to even glance at. Then the subject of returning to Hampstead had come up and the real shock settled in shortly thereafter.

"But darling, we've been here for nearly a year," her mother had said, glancing over to her husband as if this was something that had been already discussed, "your father is in the middle of starting up our own dental clinic and it'll be another month or so before your baby brother is born." More rubbing of the belly. "I suppose there had to be reason why I've been so partial to the name Hermes."

Hermione's heart had nearly stopped beating.

"We would be starting over if we went back now," her father chimed in, his thick brows furrowed in concern mingled thought, "You altered our memories but I doubt you did the old abracadabra to our former colleagues? The neighbors? Our friends? Sweetheart, we've made a good life for ourselves here." He gestured about the house's sitting room which Hermione was loathed to admit was larger and furnished rather more expensively than the one back home. Of course, there were no pictures of her on the walls, no evidence that they had ever had an eighteen year old daughter. She had seen to that quite well, hadn't she. "But of course we love you and we are so happy you found us. We want you to stay with us. You'll love it in Adelaide! You could go to university. It would be a new start for us all."

Hermione had tried her hardest not to cringe as she watched her father's fingers intertwine with her mother's and settle atop the pronounced bump of her midsection. She had wanted them safe from Voldemort. Safe from his Death Eaters. Hermione had not wanted her parents to become just another casuality in a war that had less to do with them and more to do with the boy their only daughter had happened to befriend. She had felt as if she owed it them, their safety. And what had they done? They had taken it by the proverbial horns and started a family without her. Oh, she was furious. And she knew she should not be. It was no fault of their own. Nor was it the fault of the unborn sibling she had always wanted. But the hurt and the anger, the disbelief, it had surged like floodwaters nevertheless.

She had never been prone to tantrums, even as a child but in that moment, she had wanted to yell and curse and cry and smash things all over the floor for good measure. The desire so strong, she very nearly did. But rationality had miraculously won out and no scenes were caused.

And now, here it was, she was back in England, on the Muggle side of things, attempting to drown her seemingly invincible pain and sorrows in alcohol. She sent no word to Harry or the Weasleys when she returned, had not spoken to them since she had Apparated from the Burrow. She did not know when she would, or even if she would for that matter. For the first time in her life, she felt really and truly alone. The magical world and the Muggle world had always coexisted for her. She had always had both, one and the other in equal measures. Now, she had neither.

"Can I tempt you once more, pretty girl?" The bartender's voice cut through her foggy reverie and Hermione blinked slowly, trying to bring some clarity to her blurred vision. How many had she had already, three? Or was it four? More than that? How late had it gotten? Had it always been this quiet? Sure enough, as she glanced around the establishment, there were only a handful of patrons left, most about as drunk as she was - a man slumped over in his seat in the corner, a woman with cheap lipstick smeared over her mouth, a cigarette dangling loosely between the fingers of her hand as she argued loudly with whoever it was on the other line of her cellphone.

The man behind the counter boldly reached forward and tucked a lock of her bushy hair behind her ear. Hermione stumbled backward, nearly tripping over her own feet as she stood from the stool.

"I-I erm think I should be leaving," she stammered plaintively, her head swirling as her equilibrium attempted to right itself, "It's late."

The bartender's eyes hardened and the smirk he wore thinned to a grim line."Why does it have to be like that, love? I thought we were getting on well. You weren't leading me on, were you?"

Had she been? She could not remember. The floor beneath her feet seemed to be moving, the walls spinning slowly. Dizziness settled in between her eyes, the sudden desire to sleep quick on its heels.

"You don't look well at all, do you love?" When had the bartender come from behind the bar? He was standing so close to her, she could smell the sourness on his breath and it made her stomach roll dreadfully, "You need to lay down, don't you? Don't worry there's a little spot in the back."

"N-no," she mumbled, her tongue thick, her mouth dry. What was happening? She had been drunk before, many times, and it felt nothing like this. It was similar to an outer body experience. She could feel her heart pounding and ever fiber of being urging her to flee, but she could not move. Even as the bartender grabbed her roughly by the wrist, pulling her toward the rear of the bar, she could not dredge up the strength needed to fight him off. Her limbs felt like they weighed a ton, her head lolling to one side as she was all but dragged to certain doom. How could she have been so stupid? How could she not have been paying attention to what she was drinking? She couldn't even scream, her throat so tight and dry, and besides who would really try to help her if did?

"Take your filthy hands off of her."

The noises in the background were nearly undicipherably garbled now, but even in her stupor, Hermione became aware of the sudden presence of a female at her side. Wild dark hair came into her line of doubled vision as she was rather harshly yanked, manhandled, until she was standing behind the woman. Safe, she felt safe even as she rocked and swayed violently, trying to stay upright.

"Who the bloody hell do you think you are, bitch?" the bartender squawked, his tone one of outrage and fear, "Mind your fucking business!"

"My Mudblood is my fucking business."

There was no more talking then. A tiny part of Hermione's consciousness wished that she was in a state to fully take in what was happening. But she could feel the rush of movement, feel the pulse of magic as flashes of red light illuminated the semi-dark pub, hear the thuds of bodies hitting the floor, hear the delighted cackles coming from the woman who had protected her from the lecherous bartender. No, not woman. Witch. Bellatrix Lestrange.

She barely stifled the urge to laugh hysterically herself. Where the hell had she come from?

"Come on, girl," Bellatrix groused in irritation, grabbing her by the sleeve of her t-shirt, roughly pulling her out of the pub in the direction of a dark, litter strewn underpass. By now, Hermione could barely keep her eyes open and she tripped, reaching out for the dark witch's cloak to catch her balance, which earned her a grunt of disgust.

"Th-thank you," she tried to get out, the words seizing up in her throat. Who would have thought she would ever in her life be thanking Bellatrix Lestrange for anything. Let alone potentially saving her life. Maybe she was hallucinating, under the effects of whatever had been added to her drink. Oh God she was going to be sick. Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the catalysts to this whole situation. This was all the Death Eater's fault. Her fault she had fled the Burrow, her fault she had even been in the pub in the first place.

"That's all you lot do, isn't it," Bellatrix spat scathingly, sharply wrenching Hermione towards her, so close they were nose to nose, "Blame your own shortcomings on everybody else. It's disgusting."

Hermione barely had time to register and process the acerbic words or even wonder how the dark witch had known what she was thinking before, with a crack, the familiar sensation of being squeezed through a too small rubber tube commanded total attention and the sights and sounds of the Muggle world abruptly disappeared.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** _ Okay, so Bellatrix and Hermione meet again! This was another chapter I was super excited to write. I envisioned their second meeting so many times and in so many situations and I finally settled on one I really like. Come on, big bad Bella swooping in like Wonder Woman to save Hermione from some perv? *swoon* Some of you have managed to connect the dots as to how their connection works for right now and I'm so glad! Even if you haven't figured it out, don't worry! We are just scratching the surface. It gets SO much deeper. Drop a review and let me know your thoughts! Thank you so much for all the reviews, follows, favorites, and overall support. It means so much to me and gives me so much muse and motivation. Until next time loves, -bellanoire, over and out!


	13. Chapter 13

_**Warning:**_ _Chapter contains scenes of child abuse_

* * *

 _ **Love's Odyssey in Desth's Design**_

 **XIII**

Life came with burdens. Some great, some small; some light, some gruelingly heavy. No matter what, it was unavoidable. So long as one drew breath, eventually there would come a time or many when they would be saddled with a proverbial cross they had no choice but to bear. As Bellatrix cut her eyes down at the girl who had crumpled in a bloody heap right at her feet the moment the pair had Apparated in front of the safe house, she was reminded that this was yet another burden. She had had many of those in her lifetime, but each and every one of them absolutely paled in comparison to being magically bound to a Mudblood. A Mudblood who just so happened to unknowingly be the deciding factor in whether she lived or died in a few months time. Unless the unthinkable happened and the two managed to fall in love. But it was so much deeper than that. She would bet every Galleon she owned that her Horcrux knew it too. Had somehow designed it this way. If it had the power, which she was still rather puzzled about. The bond they shared had not been one forged from love, but hatred. And hatred did not usually pave the way for the warm and nauseatingly fuzzy emotions that accompanied love. They were connected simply because they hated each other. The former Death Eater would need to spend a great deal of time scouring the library, intensively researching some sort of highly improbable counter-curse. For she was sure that once the Mudblood _did_ find out the ramifications of the connection she had in no way signed up for, sparks might fly. Literally. Maybe even a few deadly bolts of green.

 _That_ would definitely take care of the problem, wouldn't it? It would create a few more too.

Bellatrix would have dearly loved in that moment to aim a sharp kick at the girl's ribs. It could have been justified in the form of a not quite apology which incorporated the assurance that she had been merely making sure her charge was still alive. Though why she was even thinking about needing a _reason_ to kick a Mudblood was almost humorous in itself. She could not dredge up the urge to laugh however, as she realized on top of everything else, she was now tasked with having to get the severely intoxicated girl into the manor. And while the idea of leaving her outside with the threat of a downpour heavy in the air was a tempting one, having the whelp catch her death of a cold and then require nursing back to health or something equally as dreadful, made the dark witch want to vomit. Connection or no connection, demented Horcrux or none, she was not about to get her hands any dirtier than they already were. Breaking that filthy Muggle's nose before knocking him and his little friends unconscious with a series of spectacularly powerful Stunning spells had been more than enough. Even if it _had_ come with a good deal of satisfaction.

Thinking back on it, Bellatrix figured she could have given the piece of shit a nice dose of the Cruciatus Curse on top of it. It had been far too long since she had last used it on anyone, too long since she had basked in the rush of power and pleasure that came over her as the poor soul would writhe and scream in the throes of an agony she had created. Still, the bartender's sweet screams may have roused unwanted attention, and in her blind fury and wanton revelry, she might not have thought to cast a proper Silencing charm.

The fact that she had been so upset about the Mudblood nearly getting herself assaulted in such a horrible way, made Bellatrix scowl. Would serve the little creature right, would it not have. What the bloody hell did she think would happen to her in a disgusting Muggle pub, by herself, getting shit faced? And they called her the brightest witch of her age. It was laughable. That title had been _hers_ once upon a time; she had earned it, deserved it. What had old kitty whiskers McGonagall and wand up the arse Dumbledore been thinking when they bestowed the title on a girl who did not even possess the common sense to pay attention to her surroundings?

Perhaps she was procrastinating. Yes, she definitely was.

With a flick of the borrowed wand and a noise of ire that sounded suspiciously like a growl, Bellatrix levitated the Mudblood and entered the safe house. The wretched girl's long lashes did not even flutter, and the soft sighs coming from her slightly parted lips were the only audible indication that she was still breathing. Bellatrix unceremoniously dumped her on a dusty threadbare sofa and was met with no complaint, merely a harsh exhale that was almost a snore.

As she plopped down in an armchair, she found that she could not take her eyes off of the bushy haired brat. Something would have to be done about that. How could she ever fall for someone with a bird's nest for hair? She was convinced her Horcrux was about as deranged as the entire Wizarding World thought _she_ was. Hermione Granger was the epitome of everything she was taught to hate. She was a sodding Mudblood for Salazar's sake, who directly opposed all that the Noble House of Black stood for. And she _should_ have been just as hideous as the sludge that slicked her veins. But no, save for all that loathsome hair, she had the audacity to be _beautiful._

A beautiful Mudblood. If that was not the textbook definition of an oxymoron, Bellatrix could not fathom what was.

Of course, she was not beautiful in the conventional sense, for no one actually possessed conventional beauty. Bellatrix thought of herself and her sisters; _she_ was beautiful in the carnal sense of the word. Andromeda had been beautiful in the tragic sense. And Narcissa, Cissy was beautiful in the delicate, almost ethereal sense. The Mudbood was beautiful in the uncouth sense. It was utterly savage how her even complexion was like ripened peaches and smooth cream. How her brows gave way to almond shaped eyes that she knew were a light brown, shot through with faint traces of gold. Hazel, they were. How her nose was straight, turned up only slightly at the end. How her mouth was so uniquely crafted; petal pink lips, the top thinner than the fuller bottom. A light smattering of freckles dusted her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She had always considered freckles to be nothing short of unsightly blemishes, but on the Mudblood, they were not. Verily, the dark witch might have even considered them _adorable_ if she trusted herself not to strangle the girl in her sleep for unconsciously evoking such a vile thought. It was entirely fiendish how well formed her features were. And Bellatrix had had the opportunity to witness those features fixed in more than one expression. Set determination and bone chilling terror. Now they were at rest, and had not at all wavered from their viciously alluring symmetry.

It was wrong. Just so. Proclivity for the fairer sex aside. Images of a blonde Hufflepuff, an ebony haired Ravenclaw, a rosy cheeked Gryffindor, and a simpering silver eyed Slytherin from her Hogwarts years passed before her mind's eye. Back then, she could have any girl she had wanted. Any bloke for that matter. So long as their blood was pure. The Granger girl though, was untouchable. Untouchable, yet essential. As unavoidable as life's burdens, because of the bond.

"I hate you," she hissed, the words dripping with venom. Bellatrix rose from the armchair and strode out of the room, suddenly unable to control her breathing. She was toeing the line of hyperventilation when she sequestered herself in the library, slamming the double doors shut behind her. She needed to pull herself together so she could think. Perhaps more research _would_ fix this. Perhaps she _could_ reverse the connection somehow, someway.

Or perhaps it was all merely wishful thinking.

* * *

 _Heavy rain pelted the glass panes. Forks of lightning illuminated the night sky like flashes of fire as thunder rolled, rivaling the roar of a dragon. So loud, so unrestrained, this wildly raging summer storm and yet it did nothing to drown out the cries of her sister. Each sob, each plea, each resounding slap from Andromeda's room, Bellatrix could feel like a blow to the chest. Tears stung her eyelids but she did not let them fall. The blunt edges of her teeth cut into the flesh of her bottom lip as she strained against the ropes binding her to her bed. She was not strong enough to break free, not strong enough to get to Andromeda, to put herself in the path of their father's ire. Cygnus had known she would try. She was not like Narcissa who stayed in her place. He had taken to using Incarcerous whenever he decided to discipline his youngest or middle daughters. Because Bellatrix always got in the way. He could beat her to a bloody pulp, hex her with all he had, and yet she would not stand down. And he could not marry off a disfigured daughter. She was already headstrong, making her even more undesirable by permanently maiming her could have disastrous consequences._

 _The ropes were tight, her struggling made them tighter. The skin on her wrists was already rubbed raw, tiny drops of blood welling up as she ignored the stinging burn. Perspiration beaded on her forehead from the exertion, her thick curly tresses clung to her face and neck. The thirteen year old uttered a hoarse scream of rage. How could Andromeda have been so stupid. Allowing a Mudblood she had secretly befriended during her first year at Hogwarts to send her letters. How could she have thought their father would not find them?_

 _And then the anger turned to herself. How could she, Bellatrix, whose very name meant 'warrior' be so weak? How could she not release herself from these bindings? She was already mastering spells on a fifth year level. Her professors considered her something of a prodigy. How could she lay there and allow her sister to be beaten to within an inch of her life, so close that she could practically smell the blood, bear the bruises. It should be her. She knew all along about Andy's little friend and had chosen to turn a blind eye to it. She was the oldest. She was the one who should be steering her sisters in the right direction. It was up to her._

 _Stilling her limbs, Bellatrix sucked in as much air as she could into her lungs. "CYGNUS! YOU FOUL BASTARD! I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!" her voice was sharp and shrill, cracking around the edges, her throat burning, "I SPIT ON THE BLACK NAME. NOBLE? HA! YOU ARE THE BIGGEST COWARD I KNOW!"_

 _She was shivering, and all the air in the room, even the sounds of the thunderstorm outside seemed to still. Through the throbbing of her heart in her ears, she could still hear Andromeda's plaintive whimpers and gasps, but the yelling and the slapping had stopped. A door slammed. And then, heavy footsteps were clapping against the corridor's hardwood floor, steadily coming closer and closer. Her breath came out in short pants and she tried to make herself numb. Tried to alleviate the rapidly growing fear that was flooding her body. The door to her room was violently wrenched open and the shadow of her father lengthened across the floor before his face was made visible in the dim firelight. Twisted. Deranged._

 _"What did you say, girl?" The words were as deadly soft as the hiss of a viper and Bellatrix detested the involuntary sob that burst from her throat the mere sound of his voice evoked. His wand was drawn, the implement aimed true. There was no time to even think of an answer to the obviously rhetorical question before a bolt of light burst from the tip and her screams filled the room._

 _At least Andy's punishment was now over. Hers, on the other hand, was only just beginning._

In Azkaban, Bellatrix had known well the feeling of insects crawling over her skin, their many legs scuttling, irritating nerve endings, alerting her to her presence despite the fact that there was nothing that could be done about them. It was almost identical to the feeling of a person being far too close. Close enough to touch, not quite touching, though the sensation of touch could still be perceived. The whisper of a caress. A tingling graze. In a way, this phantom contact grabbed at the attention more efficiently than the direct pressure from a hand. And it was this particular feeling that made Bellatrix start in her troubled sleep with a gasp so soft it was barely audible.

She was drenched in sweat and shaking, her heart throwing itself against her rib cage, the nightmarish memory from her past fresh in her mind as her snapped open. In the illumination of the fire lit library, they focused easily on the flash of a blade posed directly above her chest. The knife's hilt gripped tightly in the trembling hand of the Mudblood, who stared down at her, those hazel eyes wide and wild. For a fraction of a second, Bellatrix was almost afraid.

Almost.

"Do it, girl," she muttered, voice hoarse in the clutches of slumber, yet she managed to make the words come out like a challenge, a dare, "Do whatever it is you think you want to do with that."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ Okay, so things are definitely getting real. And that may be a bit of an understatement, yeah? Guess domestic bliss between these two isn't going to be so easy, but c'mon, did we think it would be? So much more to come, so many questions to be answered, and of course the actual romance portion of this angst fest, so please stay tuned! As always thanks so much for the support, it makes penning these chapters so rewarding! Don't hesitate to drop a review, let me know your thoughts, I LIVE for them. Really. Until next time my lovelies - bellanoire, over and out!


	14. Chapter 14

_**Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **XIV**

There was something intrinsically terrifying about waking up in an unfamiliar place and not remembering how you had gotten there. Head pounding, mouth cotton dry, Hermione stirred. The lighting was dim and yet bright enough for her to make out decaying, antique furnishings. A cloying, burnt smell hung heavy in the air, making her unsettled stomach churn dreadfully. Brows furrowed, she raised herself up into a sitting position, groaning softly at the throbbing ache behind her eyes. Her heart, once sluggish from sleep began to race as it became clearer that she had no clue where the hell she was. Sucking in a breath in an attempt to calm herself down, the brunette tried to focus, tried to remember exactly what had happened.

Flashes of blurry images from the night before lit up in her mind like an old Muggle television. A bar. A perverted bartender who would have surely had his way with her until an unlikely savior with wild black curls and a deranged cackle had interfered. Hermione wondered if the Muggles who had been in the bar were even still alive. It should have bothered her that she didn't give a damn if they weren't.

Her scar started to itch.

Bellatrix Lestrange was here. Or she was with her, rather. Under the same roof. For one horrific second she thought she was in a cell, locked in some dank dungeon never to be seen or heard from again. But no, there would be no furniture in a cell. No fireplace. No candles. Another glance around the strange room alerted her to her beaded bag laying haphazardly on an end table within arms reach. Relief flooded through her like rushing water and Hermione grabbed it, retrieving her wand from its depths. While searching, her fingers brushed the cool metal blade of a hunting knife that had been in her possession since she, Harry, and Ron had set off to hunt down Voldemort's Horcruxes. Back then, she thought it might come in handy, and as she pulled it from the bag, the security of both implements - the wand and the knife - made her feel slightly more at ease.

And then, someone started to scream. Raw, desperate screams and the scar on her arm flared to a stinging burn. Hermione gasped, clutching at her skin, trying to soothe the pain but she knew there was nothing that could be done. This was exactly what had happened at St. Mungo's. She could see the scar was an angry red, swollen just as it had been then, the screaming filling her ears and head, the combination evoking a metaphysical tug, a pull towards the ailing child. It was unbearable but she knew she had do something, go somewhere for it to stop. Last time, she had appeared in a cleaeing on the side of a road in the dead of night. But Hermione knew she would not have far to travel now to find the source of her agony.

She came to a set of double doors which she opened to be met with the interior of a rather large library. Shelves and shelves of books, floor to ceiling. Had this been any other time or place, Hermione was sure the bookworm in her would have been in raptures. But with Bellatrix Lestrange sprawled out on an armchair in the center of the room, it was difficult to notice anything but her.

Her footsteps were unsteady as she slowly approached the dark witch, gripping the knife as she did so. She could see the Death Eater was asleep but evidently in the throes of a nightmare. She knew well the tell tale signs. Her eyes were twitching behind the closed lids. A light sheen of perspiration had beaded above her brows and she was murmuring something. Something that sounded oddly like 'Father' and 'please'. The screaming had stopped and as Hermione edged closer, carefully as one would when approaching a venemous snake or a dragon, she realized that the burning sensation on her arm had dwindled down to a dull throb.

The realization of the fact that she had never seen Bellatrix Lestrange in such a vulnerable state hit Hermione like a blow to the chest. The Death Eater was smaller than she remembered. Petite. It was almost comical given how terrifying she was. She could just do it now. The knife was already in her hand. In one fell swoop, or a perfectly aimed stab, she could be the one to rid the Wizarding World of one of the most evil individuals known. She would be avenging the deaths and tortures of so many, including herself. Right there and then. End the madness. Spit in the faces of those who thought she deserved to be commited to the loony ward. Solve all of her problems. And afterward, afterward she just might take her parents up on the offer to move to Australia. She wanted her life back. The life she had before Voldemort and the war. And she could have that, by taking Bellatrix Lestrange's life. It was after all for the greater good. And she wholeheartedly believed in that, did she not?

There were many words that could be used to describe the color black. Jet. Pitch. Inky. Obsidian. Onyx. Sable. There were others too. But not one of them came close enough to exemplify the color of Bellatrix's eyes as they suddenly snapped open. There was a depth in the color, an almost tangible something in the dark irises that could not be defined. There was no word for it. They were transfixing to the point where Hermione's brain stalled, forgetting entirely that perhaps she should be frightened or at the very least worried that the notorious criminal was now awake and watching her with a shrewd, calculating expression.

 _"Do it, girl. Do whatever it is you think you want to do with that."_

Everything went still. So still that Hermione could only hear the pounding of her heart, the rush of her blood, and her short, shuddering exhales being torn from her parted lips. The knife was shaking, no not the knife. Her hand, it was trembling, fingers clutching the hilt of the blade so tightly the whites of her knuckles were stark against the mottled flesh. Her chest was heaving, she was aware of that as well. She could not move and she wondered if Bellatrix might have cast a silent Full Body Bind on her. But no, she would have collapsed if that were the case.

A slender, surprisingly warm alabaster hand wrapped around her wrist then and Hermione watched as if she were outside of her own body as the dark witch's fingers tensed, squeezed. But it was an almost gentle pressure. Not enough to hurt, but to grab her attention. It coaxed her arm to slowly lower, eliminating the blade's threat with each centimeter of descent, until her hand was now by her side and the weapon went clattering to the library's floor.

In an instant, the room went on tilt as she was knocked down by a stinging blow to the face. Her back hit the floor with a thud and she involuntarily bit down on her tongue, immediately tasting blood. But the pain hardly registered because Bellatrix was now on her, straddling her, the same hand that had been wrapped around her wrist was know gripping her throat.

"Have you lost your mind," the Death Eater purred, her voice low and lethal, as her grip tightened, "Because I really think you have, dearie."

And just like that, she was back at Malfoy Manor. In that icy drawing room. Same position. Only then she had been begging, pleading, crying, shaking. Back then the lingering effects of the Cruciatus Curse had been buzzing through her blood. Back then, a knife had been in the hands of the dark witch who had used it to carve 'Mudblood' into her skin. Back then, she had been helpless. Weak. A pitiful, sobbing wreck who had not possessed the sense or courage to fight back.

Then, she had not yet seen the horrors of war. She had not yet watched her best friend burn to death in a fiery inferno. She had not yet been betrayed by her closest friends, by her own parents. Back then, her greatest fears had merely been failing her classes or not getting to sit her NEWTs on time. That day was not this day however, and now, she was a very different Hermione Granger with a point to prove.

With a strangled yell, she grabbed a handful of thick dark curls and yanked as hard as she could. Startled, Bellatrix's grip loosened just enough for Hermione to draw a much needed gulp of air to prepare to fight for her life. She thrashed wildly beneath the dark witch, punching, kicking, scratching at whatever skin she could reach. Adrenaline pulsed madly through her, her headache and malaise all but forgotten. It took Bellatrix a moment to realize what was happening apparently for she did not immediately duck or dodge any blows and the Gryffindor lioness within Hermione roared in triumph as she felt her nails break skin.

Bellatrix began to laugh, raucous, gleeful cackles that were as disarming as it was grotesque given the situation and it gave Hermione pause. She watched in awestruck disgust as the Death Eater thumbed away the drops of bright red blood that had welled up from the scratch on her cheek and lick the digit clean.

"The kitten wants to play, hmm?" she mused with a dulcet simper, "Let's play then."

Every single shred of logic in the brunette's brain knew that it was highly unlikely that she could best Bellatrix one on one. In a fight or a duel. But this was not about logic. It was about survival. Kill or be killed. It was a tangled mess of limbs and violent blows, nails, and teeth. At one point Hermione attempted to roll over and reach blindly for the knife that had fallen but Bellatrix stopped her with backhand slap that made the brunette see stars. The dark witch was ruthless and frighteningly strong despite her size. But Hermione was running on adrenaline, desperation, and rage and her own fists were hitting their target, albeit with far less precision than her foe. They were both bleeding, panting, growling obsecenities in between blows. It was carnal, raw, and had Hermione been watching this frenzied tussling, this fight for dominance from a distance, she might have found it almost erotic.

Pinned beneath Bellatrix for the third time, however, with a knee compressing her sternum and her forearm pressed against her windpipe, her lungs burning with the need to breathe, the only thing Hermione could feel was surety that the Death Eater was actually going to strangle her to death. Her movements were sluggish now, her strength depleting rapidly as oxygen depravation made her vision blur and the blood vessels behind her eyes throb in earnest.

"Had enough?" Bellatrix drawled, her voice rough, tight with exertion, her tone taunting, condescending.

Had she not been struggling to stay conscious, Hermione would have initiated round two by smacking that smug smirk off of Bellatrix's swelling mouth. As it was, logic won out at last and the brunette nodded once. The gesture was far from submissive, she glared defiantly up at older witch, hazel eyes ablaze. Perhaps she was imagining it but, strangely, this seemed to impress the Death Eater.

Once she was released, Hermione inhaled so deeply and greedily, she began to choke. But coughing was okay, hiccups were all right. It meant she was breathing. Bellatrix was snickering as if this were the most amusing thing in the world, and in between gasps, Hermione could see the older witch tucking the hunting knife blade first into her corset. Her lip was split and there was a bruise forming on her pale cheek. But besides that, Voldemort's former lieutenant appeared as if she had merely gone for a brisk walk and not at all like she had been in a brawl.

"Where am I?" Hermione managed to ask, slowing down her breaths to prevent hyperventilation, "What am I doing here?"

"Seems to me like you need a lesson in manners, dearie. I did save you, didn't I? Perhaps I should have let that filthy Muggle have his wicked way with you instead."

Hermione huffed in irritation, unable to argue the fact, but not at all liking the dark witch's use of deflection. "I want to leave now."

Bellatrix tapped her chin thoughtfully, gaze rolling upward as if pondering the idea. "Hmm, no, I don't think so," she said at last, "I should like you to remain here a little longer."

Dread filled the pit of Hermione's stomach cold as ice. Was she being held prisoner then? Could she even escape if she tried? Would Bellatrix lock her up? And how, Merlin how would anyone even know where to look for her? Or if to look for her.

"My friends, the Order, they will notice if I just disappeared," the brunette bluffed, ashamed at the almost pleading tone that edged the words. Bellatrix would not risk being captured by the Order. She could not risk it. She would be sent straight to Azkaban or given the Kiss. And even though Hermione would love to see her punished for her crimes, to be in the very prison cell, witnessing a Dementor suck the soul out of the vile witch, her first priority was to get out. Make her see she had no choice but to let her go.

"Is that right?" Bellatrix whispered, slowly approaching Hermione until there was less than an inch of distance between them. She was so close that the younger witch could at last decide what color her eyes were. They were like the ocean at midnight. Swirling, choppy waves of darkness and unfathomable depth. "No one has known where you've been for over a month, girl."

The fact that Hermione was momentarily distracted by Bellatrix's eyes was more startling than the words she had just uttered. It was true. She had not seen or spoken to anyone she knew in the Wizarding World since the day she had left the Burrow. And even now, she had no desire to.

"Best make yourself comfortable. The wards on this manor are rather nasty should you try to leave."

Her anger blessedly bubbled to the surface once more and Hermione was grateful for it. Anger was a much safer emotion than fear. Anger helped to cloud the truth. The truth being that not only would no one attempt to find her but honestly, she did not want them to. Anger helped dull the confusion as to why it felt... _right_ to be here, to be in the vicinty of Bellatrix Lestrange. Anger was good and she clutched at it before it could fade into acceptance. "I would rather be cursed than to stay here with you."

Bellatrix smiled, a wry, almost eerie quirk of her lips, as she resumed her position in the armchair. Her expression was one of detatched arrogance as she wiped the drying blood from her mouth. It was like the fight had never even happened. She was much too at ease. Almost triumphant. "Careful what you wish for, Mudblood."

There was an ominous undertone to the statement that made Hermione's heart stutter in her chest. That melted her residual anger into puddles of fear for it gave the impression that somehow her wish had already come true.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ Sorry for the delay, October is such a busy month for me giving the fact that its my birthday month. Granted my birthday is the day before Halloween but lots to prepare for nonetheless. Anywho, next chapter should be up in a more timely fashion.

So, here it is. Hermione has agreed to stay in the safe house with Bellatrix. Sort of. Fun times ahead. Yep, fun times. I wanted to make a point with the fight scene. In some Bellamione stories, Bellatrix basically beats Hermione's ass every chance she gets, locks her in a dungeon, abuses her some more and somehow they fall in love. Though stories like that are a bit of guilty pleasure for me and I definitely may take a page out of that particular book someday, this won't be like that, sorry to disappoint. Hermione is in a dark and tumultuous place in her life and while a lot of her actions thus far have been very self destructive, I think she has a point to prove, especially to Bellatrix. The point being that she isn't the same girl she tortured in Malfoy Manor. She isn't weak, she isn't helpless. She's hurt and angry.

Let me know your thoughts of course! Thanks so much for support, as always. Really, it means so much. Until next time loves - bellanoire, over and out!


	15. Chapter 15

_**Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **XV**

It did not take long for Pureblood witches and wizards to learn that they were but proverbial links in a chain. The specifics of said chain sometimes varied, sometimes were very similar. Some links proved to be strong, fortified by a figurative iron or steel that made proud an ancient bloodline, while others were weak, thin and rusted that threatened to break and reduce a century's old family name to utter extinction.

Draco Abraxas had been the silver eyed, platinum haired link that irrevocably joined and bound the Malfoy family to the Noble House of Black. With the announcement of his birth came a burden place on his tiny shoulders. But in the beginning, it did not feel much like a burden. No, not when he was the spoiled and pampered sole heir, whose every need, whim, and desire was put before him on a silver platter. Ignorant and naive he had been then, fancying himself far above everyone else and daring anyone to contest it. He had almost been happy then.

The burden began to crush him beneath its weight at the end of his fifth year of Hogwarts. When his father had been arrested and thrown into prison after a skirmish at the Ministry of Magic involving some prophecy. And the Dark Lord had made his triumphant return.

Draco could remember the night as plainly as if it had just happened. The panic that had filled him when Professor Snape had unceremoniously strode into the Slytherin dorms and all but dragged him to the fireplace in his quarters, thrusting him into the cool emerald flames, ordering him home. The sight of his mother, stricken and wide eyed, with the most emotion he had ever seen on her usually composed face. His crazy aunt Bellatrix arriving shortly after he had, whom he'd never officially met before then, knowing of her only by the nefarious crimes she had committed during the First War for which she had been condemned to life in Azkaban. The moment he had looked into her fathomless, pit-like eyes and heard her high pitched, reedy voice, combined with her disheveled appearance and rotted teeth he knew, without anyone having to tell him, that nothing would ever be as it once had been.

And now, over three years later, the evidence of that fleeting though intuitive thought of the then fifteen year old was staggering. Between that time and that day, a war had been waged, the darkest sorceror to ever walk the earth to date had been defeated, countless lives had been lost, and his family that had once stood so proud and so strong, was in tatters.

His mother, she was hiding something from him.

When he had found her in her quarters and she had held him closer, speaking sweeter to him than she had in years, he knew something was amiss. Since the end of the war, he had emotionally detatched himself from everything as a way to cope with all that had been torn apart, taken away. But the thought of leaving his mother at the mercy of the Aurors and the members of the Order of the Phoenix, abandoning her, sent a lance of fright through him so strong, that he'd woken up. So to speak. His father was serving a life sentence. He would never see his father again. And the idea that his mother might suffer the same fate was too much to bear.

Apparently the officials who came had found nothing incriminating enough to attempt to take her. But in the month that had passed since then, Draco could sense that all was not well. The way his mother seemed uncharacteristically jumpy and anxious, the way she seemed to be expecting someone to breach the wards and barge through the door or floo in from one of the fireplaces at any given moment. All red flags.

And the House Elf had gone missing.

He knew his mother well enough to know that she would never want him to worry, to know that she believed in her silence that she was protecting him. Because protecting him above all other things was what she did. Draco also knew that his mother had not had a full night's sleep in weeks, if not longer. And for that reason he did not feel guilty in the slightest for slipping a vial of Sleeping Draught into her glass of wine.

The potion when combined with the alcohol proved to be especially potent and Narcissa had quickly succumbed to the effects, falling into a deep, though peaceful sleep upon the chaise longue in the manor's sitring room, the book she had been thumbing through falling from her grasp, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

Draco could barely remember the last time he had been in his mother's room. The space smelled of her. Lavender and French vanilla, delicately sweet, not at all cloying or clingy. Everything was in order. The large bed made as if it hadn't ever been used, the cosmetics on the vanity lined neatly. The fireplace unlit. The windows ajar allowing the summer night air to gently roll in.

In the farthest corner of the room upon the stone floor sat a large wooden and dragon hide steamer trunk. Though old, the handsome ebony wood was heavily polished and smooth, with fading silver letters on the front that spelled out the acronym, N. W. B.

This trunk had been the very one his mother had used during her Hogwarts years. Charmed to carry more than its size without concern to space, it was now the place where Narcissa Malfoy stored her dearest possessions. Draco quickly unlocked the tarnished silver clasps and lifted the heavy lid.

Grey eyes took in the sight of what had to be millions of Galleons worth of precious stones of various sizes- diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, citrines, amethysts, and Hanadama pearls - some crafted into jewelry, gold and silver necklaces, earrings, brooches, bracelets, rings and hat pins, others left as is, cut to catch reflecting light off of their multifaceted surfaces. For a moment, the sheer wealth caught Draco off guard as the only pieces of jewelry he had ever seen his mother wear were her wedding ring and a simple gold locket she had had since childhood.

Also contained within the trunk were stacks of old letters and aging stationery, an array of potions corked in different sized vials, leather bound tomes and scrolls, photographs, an old Hogwarts tie and scarf in Slytherin colors, empty portrait frames, a small book that looked like it could be an old diary, a raggedy stuffed dragon that had once belonged to him.

So distracted Draco was when presented with the evidence of his mother's sentimental materialism, parts of her that he had never gotten to know or share, that he almost forgot what had prompted him to look into the trunk in the first place.

But it was hard not to notice the ornate pewter basin sitting in the center of the trunk, smoky tendrils of a cloud like substance curling about indolently from within. The Black Family Pensieve. He had seen it only once before when his mother had offered to remove the memories of she, his father, and Bellatrix being tortured by the Dark Lord in the Manor after Potter, Weasley, and Granger had escaped with the aid of the Elf, Dobby. He had refused.

He needed to know what his mother was silently combating with. He knew that she would fight to protect him with her last breath. And partly, as he removed the Pensieve from the trunk, Draco felt as if in doing what he was about to do, he was violating her privacy. But the other part was the part that told him he needed to do this, needed to see, needed the opportunity, depending out what the silver slivers of her memories would reveal, to protect her now.

With no hesitation, Draco plunged his face into the depths of the basin and was instantly enveloped in a cool mist as his conscious propelled him into a swirling cyclone of scenes and images.

When he landed, he realized he stood in the foyer of his home. Directly behind his mother who was standing in the jamb of the opened front door.

 _'Bella? What on earth?'_

All of the air left his lungs and his heartrate quickened as the name of his dead aunt was uttered in a tone colored with shock and disbelief. But relief followed fear's footsteps as his mother stepped aside and allowed a strange looking witch passage into their home. The witch did not resemble his aunt in the slightest.

But the scene continued, neither women aware of his presence.

 _'Is it really you?'_

 _'Yes.'_

The sickly unease returned tenfold as he watched his mother lead the stranger into the sitting room. The missing House Elf being summoned to light a fire after a petulant complaint. Tea being requested. An exchange between the two, a subtle sort of familiarity beginning to take root.

 _'The Aurors told me you died in the Battle.'_

 _'I did...but then something brought me back.'_

The House Elf returning with the tea. The changing expressions on his mother's face as she recognized certain quirks and habits of the dark witch.

 _'So this something brought you back from the dead?'_

 _'... I'm in this body now.'_

Draco exited the memory with a shuddering gasp. His heart was pounding so hard, the thumps against his ribs felt bruising. His chest rose and fell rapidly with the breaths he took. His mind replayed the scenes he had witnessed, his emotions a tangled knot of intensity.

Bellatrix was alive. Miraculously, horrifically back from the dead. That was why the Aurors had come to their home. That was why his mother had been more troubled than she'd been following his father's imprisonment. That was why she had been prepared to sacrifice herself yet again. For him. That was what she had been hiding from him. The Dark Lord's most trusted and loyal Death Eater was at large, so cleverly disguised that her own sister had not readily been able to identify her. But it had been her. She had been in their home.

Anger, as sheer cold as a winter frost, consumed him. Bellatrix. _Auntie Bella._ She was to blame for his family's misfortunes. For the fear. For the pain. For the loss. She was the link, the iron strong link that bound his family to the Dark Lord. That held fast and chained his father, resolidifying ideals and aspirations that had gone molten after the death of that Diggory boy. Draco had known, even then, what had really happened during the Triwizard Tournament. And he had also known that his father had seen his own heir's face where Cedric had layed still. Diggory's blood had been just as pure as theirs. And yet, he was killed, which triggered doubt, fear that no matter where their loyalties lay, any one of them could become targets.

But Bellatrix. She had come, that night of the battle at the Ministry, and out of sight, similar to how he had been in that Pensieve, Draco had watched his aunt and his mother sitting together. Had listened to Bellatrix cojole and croon to her sister in that sickening tone, erasing that doubt, casting aside that fear. Claiming manically that the Dark Lord would ensure their safety and survival. That the Dark Lord would show them mercy and favor. That the Dark Lord would triumph over those not worthy of his New World. Draco had watched his mother become ensnared in the web of lies and false truths, and later his father had too, thus setting off the events that led to the now.

They had nothing. And the Dark Lord was dead.

Beneath the anger was a mind numbing terror. With Bellatrix alive, what was stopping her from returning to his mother. What was stopping her from reinstilling that poisonous bloodlust, reawakening those old thoughts that had driven them all to their doom. Nothing. Not with her alive. Nothing. But him.

It was up to him to protect his mother. Up to him to assume his place as heir of the Malfoy line. Up to him to ensure that history could not repeat itself. He would not go to the Aurors. They did not trust him. He did not trust them. This was a family matter. He needed the cruel intellect and the shrewd cunningness that ran through Black veins just as pure as their blood. His mother could not help. Not in her state, not with her penchant for keeping him safe at all costs. She would only try to stop him. She would only get in his way.

He knew exactly who to go to.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** _ Wow! Has it really been a year since I published this story? It feels so good to come back to it and it feels even better to know how much all you wonderful readers have enjoyed it so far. Honestly the support is incredble. I couldn't ask for more! Now here it is and the ball has started rolling again. Bit of a short chapter but essential to the overall plot. Things are going to get quite intense and of course by next chapter we'll be getting back to Bella and Hermione and their part of the story. Updates will be far more regular, no more five month breaks, I promise. As always I'd love to know your thoughts! Until next time, my lovelies - bellanoire, over and out!


	16. Chapter 16

_**Love's Odyssey in Death's Design**_

 **XVI**

If she were being honest, Bellatrix found her offer to be quite fair. Reasonable, even. She hadn't locked the little twerp in some dark, damp dungeon. She had not threatened to torture or kill her. The affects of the Cruciatus Curse didn't exactly kindle feelings of love and romance. Also, depending on the exact inner workings of this bond they shared, it wouldn't do for Bellatrix to hex or curse the girl only to have the magic rebound on her in some way. Wasn't that what had happened to the Dark Lord that fateful Halloween night? Was that not what had made the fight against he and the Potter boy so complicated? Because they had also been mysteriously connected. Not many in His ranks had been privy to that particular bit of information. Perhaps the wizard so many had blindly followed throughout the years would realize it was a lost cause they were fighting for if they had been. It's what she should have realized. Before the false promises, the prophecies, the murders, the tortures, Azkaban, her own twisted piece of soul that was compelling her to right so many wrongs with the threat of death hanging over her head.

But all of that was now beside the point.

She had been allowed to keep her wand. The knife of course had been confiscated. But she did have the freedom to roam the house and island at her leisure. Granted, she would find herself in a world of pain if she tried to compromise the wards, but the Granger girl was supposed to be smart. Bellatrix doubted she would be dumb enough to try. There was enough food to feed an army and the House Elf took care of all the cooking and cleaning, so there was no need to make a servant of the girl. Essentially, she was being treated like a guest. She should be counting her blessings.

But how had the Mudblood expressed her gratitude for these mercies? She had locked herself in one of the spare bedrooms of the manse and Bellatrix had not seen her for seven days.

At first, that was completely fine as far as the dark witch was concerned. Out of sight, out of mind. The most important thing was the girl being here so this whole unsavory situation could be properly sorted. By her demented Horcrux's decree, they had just over ten months to do that. Also, there were those incapacitating episodic flashbacks to work out. And the slowly but surely strengthening metaphysical bond. Bellatrix was sure all of it was connected in some magically complex way. But the hows, the whys, the what ifs, they were driving her mad. She had been a Lieutenant in her prime, not a sodding Unspeakable.

After the fifth day, Bellatrix summoned Kritter, just to make sure the girl had been eating regular meals. It wouldn't do to have her starve to death. Especially when she wasn't sure how such a thing would affect her overall.

"Yes Mistress Bella," the rather matronly, everly dutiful Elf had affirmed, "Little Mistress is eating all her food. She's even eats all her seconds."

Ah, so the Mudblood was trying to acquire some strength, probably in the event of another physical altercation. Very well, then. At least she wasn't in there wasting away.

"Little Mistress is asking Kritter if Kritter may brings her some books from the library," the House Elf reported the next day, popping into the room some time in the late afternoon. As she had spent the past week, Bella was lounging upon a settee, her face buried in yet another tome.

"No. If she wants something she can bloody well ask for it herself," the former Death Eater muttered, not even looking up from the page. The small pop of the Elf disapparating away after a beat of silence filled her with a very small amount of satisfaction.

The satisfaction, however, was short lived as she continued to read, one particular paragraph seeming to all but jump off the thick yellowed page.

" _Hatred is as pure as love, just as clean. Just as powerful. The power of love people spout sonnets, devote odes to, but likewise people fight for love, bleed for love, murder for love, die for love. As they so do in hatred. They go hand in hand. Just as strong. Just as encompassing. Just as consuming. Just as binding..."_

Sweet fucking Salazar.

Bellatrix let the book close, unable to stomach another word. She had hated a great many things in her life, people as well. Both the first and second wizarding wars had been fueled by hatred. On the side of the Dark Lord at least. The hatred towards the disgusting Muggle influences that were filling the Wizarding World with a perverse sense of acceptance and equality between wizards and their non-magical counterparts. It was a cause she had wholeheartedly believed it. Had been bred to believe in and even now, to some degree, still believed in. Hermione Granger wasn't the first Mudblood to fall victim to her torture and hadn't been the last, considering her involvement in the Battle of Hogwarts. So why her? Why this slip of a girl? What was so special about her? Why had the Horcrux chosen her for its sick little deal? It made no sense! She hated the girl. Hell, even if she didn't hate her, she doubted she would like her much. Not with her swotty little know it all attitude and her light is right morals. This wasn't right. It couldn't be right. She wouldn't allow it to be.

She was feeling suddenly light headed, her heart pounding hard beneath the confines of her corset. There was a tingling, pins and needles sensation in her limbs, her breathing coming out much too fast and heavy, short and rapid pants that made her shoulders rise and fall. Was this one of the episodes returning? Was her Horcrux deciding to toy with her again? Bellatrix's hands sought purchase in the soft cushions of the settee, her nails digging viciously into the fabric, trying to brace and ground herself for the incoming onslaught of old memories, old pain, old weakness.

Movement coming from the doorway of the library managed to catch her attention through the throes of the tumultuous ordeal and Bellatrix's face darkened furiously as her blurred gaze focused on the very last person she wanted to see in that moment.

After a week of hiding, Hermione Granger had finally shown herself, raggedy bushy hair and all.

"Go. Away." Bellatrix snarled through clenched teeth, "Get out of here before I tear you apart."

The threat would have sounded a whole hell of lot better had it not been for the strained, breathless tone of her voice. And the way she was clinging to the furniture as it were an Abraxan stallion rearing back to buck her off of it.

Hermione pointedly ignored the remark, stepping further into the room, drawing closer and closer to the dark witch.

"Don't lay one filthy finger on any of my books," Bellatrix snapped, losing some of the breathiness, tone almost shrill, even as she gasped for air, "If you dare -"

"Shut up!"

To say Bellatrix was stunned by the scathing command, was an understatement. Struck dumb was the better description, dark eyes widened, face set in a murderous expression that had once made many a full grown wizard cower before it. But the Mudblood wasn't affected in the slightest as she drew nearer. Bellatrix felt her throat tighten almost painfully, making it harder and harder for her to get enough air into her lungs. She was beginning to hyperventilate and somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if the girl might have hexed her without her being aware of it.

"You're having a panic attack," the younger brunette went on, coming to stand before Bellatrix, lowering herself into a crouch. Though her acerbic tone did not change, the volume was softer. Her expression remained stoic, impassive even as she reached out to cup pale, angular cheeks in her hands.

Bellatrix's first instinct was to wrench herself away from the touch, those small, soft hands. Those warm hands. Dirty hands. How dare the girl touch her? How dare she approach her in the first place? How dare she attempt to silence her? And why was her touch, her disgusting touch so bloody soothing?

"Focus on slowing down your breathing. In through your nose, hold it, and then out through your mouth. Slowly." The brat prattled on, as if she were quoting something out of a textbook, firmly and detatched.

There was nothing comforting in the gesture, nothing compassionate. It was strange, Bellatrix thought, as she did as the girl instructed, trying to slow her inhales, fighting against the maddening instinct to greedily draw air into her lungs as quickly as she could. She found herself staring into a pair of hazel eyes that were utterly devoid of warmth, of happiness, they were dark. But not the dark that was usually equated to wickedness or evil, dark as if the light in them had been extinguished. A flame blown out. Those eyes appeared as if they had gone up against a Dementor and had lost. There was something soulless about them that made Bellatrix shudder. There was a familiarity in that darkness too, as it had for a while stared back at her whenever she happened to look into a mirror after the mass breakout in Azkaban.

The Mudblood averted her gaze, clearly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. But she didn't let go and Bellatrix could feel a slight trembling in the fingers against her face, fingers that now felt clammy rather than warm.

"I could feel your panic," the words were muttered, though possessed a bite to them, something accusatory, "I could feel it as if I was feeling it myself. And instantly, I knew where to find you. All my thoughts, every bone in my body just screamed _library._ Why is that?"

It was Bellatrix's turn to feel uncomfortable now, using the emotion to fuel her ire. She forcefully removed herself from the girl's touch, the girl's nearness, putting a safe amount of distance between them. She trusted anger, she trusted disgust. And she cloaked herself in these secure feelings, covering up the weakness, the unsurety, the vulnerability.

"Don't ever touch me again," she barked, pacing about the room in furious strides, the sound of her heels clacking against the floor helping to clear her head, "I'll have to bathe for hours just to remove your grime from my skin."

Hermione rose to her feet, crossing her arms over her chest as she glared at the dark witch, following her every step about the large room as if waiting for her to strike.

"It's how you found me at that pub, isn't it? How I found you in that clearing. There's something between us, something connecting us. Isn't there?"

Bellatrix rounded on the girl, her wild curly hair spilling over her shoulders as she did so. "Caught on have you, girl? Took you long enough. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one." She cackled mirthlessly before resuming her pacing, "Spending all this time stuffing yourself with my food, crying into you pillow while I've been here trying to figure out how to fix this!"

"Don't you dare!" Hermione squawked, her fists clenching as her face reddened in indignation, "If you've known about this all along, you should have told me that when you decided to kidnap me! I could've gotten help from my friends."

"Oh really?" Bellatrix sneered, throwing one hand on her hip as she rolled her eyes, "Help from your little friends. The same friends who all believe me to be dead? Or the other friends who want to commit you to the loony ward?"

"How do you know about that?" the brunette asked, her anger slowly starting to bleed away to be replaced by confusion. How exactly did Bellatrix know all of that? Could they read each other's minds too? Was she using Legilimency on her? Just to be safe Hermione put up a mental barrier. She hadn't had any formal training in Occlumency but had read some books on the subject before she, Harry, and Ron had gone to search for the remaining Horcruxes.

The former Death Eater laughed again, that hideous, bloodcurdling cackle of hers and twirled one of her thick curls around her index finger as she stared Hermione down. "Read the Daily Prophet, dearie. Those friends of yours certainly had a lot to say about you. And you weren't even there to defend yourself. Doesn't sound much like friends to me. No loyalty whatsoever."

The sharp worlds pelted Hermione, the accusations staggering, the hidden, begrudging truth in them venemous. Harry and the Weasleys had gone to the Daily Prophet? They had told all of Britain about her? Made her out to be mad? They were all against her, in support of the Minister wanting her to be put into St. Mungo's? Merlin, was that all everyone would think she was? Some poor Muggleborn witch driven insane by the War. But it was no matter, as it had been for the 'greater good'. Just like all the others who had died, disappeared, lost their minds.

No, she decided in that moment. No, not if she could help it. She was tired. Tired of all that had come with being in the middle of Harry Potter and his fight against Voldemort. And now, after everything she had suffered, everything she had lost, she was now in some way connected to who had been Voldemort's most fearsome follower. And there was no one around, no one to comfort her, no one to support her. No one who truly cared whether she lived or died, really. After all, who was she to the Wizarding World? She was not the Boy Who Lived. She was not the Chosen One. She was not the Savior. She never had been. She had just been collateral damage, a necessary sacrifice. Just like Ron. Except the only difference was unlike Ron, she was still breathing.

"I don't need them," she heard herself say, "They took everything from me. My parents are gone because of them. And never, not once did they thank me for what I've done."

Bellatrix's brows furrowed at the sudden change in the Mudblood's demeanor, the deadened quality in her tone, those eyes of hers like bottomless pits of misery. She almost felt bad for her. Almost.

"We'll figure it out," Hermione went on in that terrifying monotone voice, "How to break the connection between us."

"What makes you think you can?" the dark witch whispered incredulously. What did the Mudblood have up her sleeve? Why the odd change of heart? Could they even work together without attempting to destroy each other? It seemed impossible at best, crazy.

"Everything can be fixed, Bellatrix. Even if it means breaking apart something else to do it."

Hermione turned to leave the room but just as she reached the door, she glanced back at the other witch, a witch who had been known as one of the most wicked in the wizarding world. A witch who had done unspeakable things to both her and countless others. A witch whose emotions she could now feel. And amidst the onslaught she had felt during those earlier moments of panic, and even now, she was picking up on something she never thought a person like Bellatrix Lestrange could ever feel. It felt something like defeat. And it did not feel right.

* * *

 ** _Author's Note_ :** Yeah I know this is a couple days late, sorry about that! But whoa, now Hermione has figured out that she and Bellatrix are bonded! What's going to happen now? How's Bella going to be able to appease that Horcrux when they are still so wary of each other? And what does that passage from the book really mean? Will the T rating ever be changed to M? Gah so many questions and they will all be answered in due time! Do you have any speculations? Things you wish to see between these two? Let me know! Thank you so much for all the views, the reviews, follows, and favorites. It means so much to me that this story seems to be so well enjoyed. Until next time folks - bellanoire, over and out!


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